lllili 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
WILLIAM  C.  HABBERLEY 


J 


^tantJartJ  Hibrarp  ODition 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THA(KERA\ 

WITH  ILLUSTKATIOXS  BV  THE  AUTHOR  AXD   OTHERS,  A. YD 

WITH   INTRODUCTORY  NOTES  SETTING  FORTH    THE 

HIS  TOR)'  OF   THE   SETERAL    irORKS 

i\  T^VT•.^'T^•-T\v()  voi.umks 

VOLLME    XXII 


Ujl/Iu/JvwXxJc'Ov^ 


Thackeray 

From  a  photograph  about  1831 


MISCELLANEOUS  PAPERS 
AND    SKETCHES 

I^itl)crto  ancoIIcctcD 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY 


WITH    THE   ORIGINAL    ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON   AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1889, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLTN   cV:   CC. 


[J^l4-^^j:.,^^    ;Sy^/ 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambriifsf,  Mass..  U.  S.  A. 
Printed  by  11.  0.  Houghton  and  Company. 


INTKODUCTORY  NOTE. 


After  Thackeray's  death  a  definitive  edition  of  his  works 
was  issued  in  London,  of  which  the  present  edition  is  sub- 
stantially a  reprint.  The  penultimate  volume  of  that  edi- 
tion was  entitled  Miscellaneous  Essays,  Sketches^  and  Re- 
views, and  contained  papers  not  previously  reprinted.  In 
making  up  the  present  edition,  the  contents  of  that  volume 
have  been  distrilnited  in  volumes  xix.,  xx.,  and  this  final  vol- 
unu' ;  but  in  addition,  use  has  been  made  of  another  post- 
hmnous  collection  of  Thackeray's  writings,  entitled  Sultan 
Stork  and  other  Stories  and  Sketches,  published  in  1887  by 
George  Redway. 

The  articles  in  this  final  volume  of  the  American  reissue 
have  been  grouped  with  some  reference  to  their  association, 
and  the  original  date  and  place  of  publication  have  been 
prefixed  to  the  several  numbers.  A  few  scattered  papers 
not  in  any  collected  edition  of  Thackeray  have  been  inter- 
spersed, and  the  opportunity  has  been  taken  to  add  such 
few  speeches  as  had  been  reported,  and  the  few  letters  scat- 
tered in  the  volumes  of  correspondence  of  Thackeray's  con- 
temporaries. This  edition,  therefore,  makes  good  its  claim 
to  be  the  fullest,  most  exhaustive  edition  of  Thackeray's 
Avritings  which  has  appeared  either  in  England  or  America 

In  drawing  from  the  two  principal  sources  of  this  com- 
pilation, the  editor   has  availed  himself  of  the  occasional 


M595G78 


vi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

footnotes  supplied  by  the  English  editors.  It  would  have 
been  a  feeble  and  most  idle  evasion  to  have  used  the  mate- 
rial and  merely  changed  the  form  so  as  to  give  the  appear- 
ance of  original  investigation.  His  work  as  an  editor  has 
been  confined  to  searching  for  the  few  pieces  not  in  the 
two  main  books  from  which  this  volume  is  drawn,  and  to 
the  orderly  arrangement  of  material.  The  sources  from 
which  he  has  drawn  the  facts  set  forth  in  the  several  intro- 
ductions are  many,  but  he  would  chiefly  specify  as  aiding 
him,  not  perhaps  so  much  in  specific  passages,  since  the 
scope  of  the  volume  is  limited  bibliographically,  as  in  its 
general  illustration  of  Thackeray's  personality,  the  volume 
A  Collection  of  Letters  of  Thackeray  published  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 

At  the  close  of  the  present  volume  will  be  found  an  alpha- 
betical index  of  titles  of  all  works  and  articles. 

Boston,  October,  1889. 


CONTENTS. 


CONTRIBUTIONS   TO    "THE   SXOB":  page. 

Ouu  "  Snob's  "  Biiini,  Paukntage,  and  Education  .    .  1 

Mrs.  Ramsbottom  in  Cambridge 2 

A  Statement  of  Fax  relative  to  tue  late  Murder  .  3 

TiMBUCTOO      4 

COXTKIBUTIOXS  TO  "THE  NATIONAL  STANDARD"  : 

Foreign  Correspondence    7 

The  Ciiarruas 13 

CRITICISMS    IN   LITERATURE  AND   ART: 

Willis's  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil    ...  20 
Barmecide    Banquets,   with    Joseph    Bregion    and 

Anne  Miller 27 

About  A  Christmas  Book 43 

A  Brother  of  THE  Press  on  the  History  of  a  Literary 
Man,  Laman  Blanchard,  and  the  Chances  of  the 

Literary  Profession 53 

On  some  Illustrated  Children's  Books 68 

A  Grumble  about  the  Christmas  Books 83 

Strictures  on  I'ictires 112 

A  Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts 124 

A  Pictorial  Rhapsody 138 

A  Pictorial  llii apsody,  Concluded 162 

On  Men  and  Pictures 185 

An  Exhibition  Gossip 210 

LETTERS   ON  THE   FINE  ARTS  : 

I.     The  Art  Unions 220 

II.     The  Objections  against  Art  Unions 225 

III.  The  Royal  Academy 233 

IV.  The  Royal  Academy  (Second  Notice) 237 

May  Gambols  :   or,  Titmarsh  in  the  Picture  Gal- 
leries       241 

Picture  Gossip  :   in  a  Letter  from  Michael  Angelo 

Titmarsh 271 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS  :  pack. 

Professions  by  George  Fitz-Boodle  :  Third  Profes- 

siox 292 

Men's  Wives.    No.  IV.    The 's  Wife 299 

ODDS  AND  ENDS  : 

Memorials  of  Gormandizing 320 

Men  and  Coats 347 

Dickens  in  France 365 

The  Partie  Fine 385 

Arabella  ;  or,  The  Moral  of  the  ''  Partie  Fine"    .  395 

Greenayich  —  Whitebait 401 

The  Chest  of  Cigars 409 

Bob  Robinson's  First  Love 415 

The  Dignity  of  Literature 426 

Capers  and  Anchovies 432 

Mr.  Thackeray  in  the  United  States 436 

A  Leaf  out  of  a  Sketch-Book 441 

LECTURE : 

Charity  and  Humor 447 

PUBLIC  SPEECHES: 

Literature  versus  Politics 462 

The  Reality  of  the  Novelist's  Creation 463 

Authors  and  their  Patrons 464 

The  Novelist's  Future  Labors 467 

On  Leaving  England  for  America 469 

Commerce  and  Literature 471 

LETTERS : 

To  Macvey  Napier,  Esq 474 

To  William  Edmondstoune  Ay^toun 475 

To  G.  H.  Lewes 478 

To  Anthony  Trollope 481 

To  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 481 

THE  HISTORY  OF  DIONYSIUS   DIDDLER 483 

(GENERAL   INDEX  OF  WRITINGS 493 


CONTRIBUTIONS   TO   -THE   SNOB." 

[Ca^ibkidge,  1829.] 


OUR   "SNOB'S"   BIRTH,   PARENTAGE   AND 
EDUCATION. 

"Never  shall  I  forget,'"  said  an  old  crone  to  me  the 
other  day,  who,  as  far  as  we  know,  is  contemporary  with 
the  alley  in  which  we  live  —  "'  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
night,  iu  which  you,  !Mr.  Tudge,  made  your  hrst  appearance 
among  us.  Your  father  had,  iu  his  usual  jocular  manner, 
turned  every  one  from  the  fireside,  and  putting  a  foot  on 
each  hob,  with  a  pot  in  one  hand,  and  a  i)ipe  in  the  other, 
sat  blowing  a  cloud."'  "Ay,  Mrs.  Siggins,"  said  I. 
"  re(fe).jJi'ro£Tu  Zfv^*  I  suppose,  as  the  blind  bard  has  it." 
"  Keep  your  Latin  for  the  collegers,"  said  she ;  "  I  know 
nothing  on  't.  Well,  lo  and  behold,  as  I  was  saying,  we 
were  all  sitting  quiet  as  mice,  when  just  as  I  had  turned 
over  the  last  i)age  of  the  '  Skeleton  Chief,  or  Bloody  Ban- 
dit,' a  sound,  like  I  don"t  know  what,  came  from  overhead. 
Now,  no  one  was  upstairs,  so,  as  you  may  well  suppose,  the 
noise  brought  my  heart  into  my  mouth,  —  nay  more,  it 
brought  your  dad  to  his  legs,  and  j^ou  into  the  world.  For 
your  mother  was  taken  ill  directl}',  and  we  helped  her  off 
to  bed.'*  ''  Farturlunt  monies,  nas'' •\  —  said  I,  stopping 
short  in  confusion,  —  thank  Heaven,  the  old  Avoman  knew 
not  the  end  of  the  proverb,  but  went  on  with  her  story. 
"  '  Go,  Bill.'  says  j^our  father,  '  see  w^hat  noise  was  that.' 
Off  went  Bill,  pale  as  a  sheet,  while  I  attended  to  your 
mother.  Bill  soon  came  laughing  down.  'The  boot-jack 
fell  off  the  peg,'  says  he.  'It's  a  bo}",'  screams  I.  'How 
odd  ! '   says   your   dad.      '  What's    odd  ?  '    says    I.     '  The 

*  \it<piXrTy(piTa  Zd's.  (HoM.  Iliad.,  a.  511,  517,  et  ssspius),  i.e.  "cloud- 
compelling  Jove."  — Ed.] 

t  [Fartiaiunt  moyUcs,  nascetur  ridiculus  mus.  —  Hor.  De  Art.  Poet.  — 
139.  —  Ed.1 


2  CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  -^TIIE   SNOB:' 

I'hild  and  the  jack— it"s  ominous,'  says  he.  -As  how?' 
says  I.  '  Call  the  child  Jack/  says  he."  And  so  they  did, 
and  that's  the  way,  do  you  see,  my  name  was  Jack  Clypei 
Septemplicis  Ajax. 

Early  in  life  I  was  sent  to  a  small  school  in  the  next 
street,  where  I  soon  learned  to  play  at  marbles,  blow  my 
nose  in  my  pinafore,  and  bow  to  the  mistress.  Having 
thus  exhausted  her  whole  stock  of  knowledge,  I  migrated 

to    .Miss    G 's,  in  Trumpington  Street,  and  under   the 

tuition  of  the  sisters,  became  intimately  acquainted,  before 
I  was  nine  years  of  age,  with  the  proper  distribution  of 
letters  in  most  three-syllable  words  of  the  British  tongue, 
i.e.  I  became  an  expert  speller. 

(To  be  continued.) 


Mrs.  RAMSBOTTOM  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 

Radish  Ground  Buildings. 

Dear  Sir,  — I  was  surprised  to  see  my  name  in  Mr.  Bull's 
paper,  for  I  give  you  my  word  I  have  not  written  a  sylla- 
bub to  him  since  I  came  to  reside  here,  that  I  might  enjoy 
the  satiety  of  the  literary  and  learned  world. 

I  have  the  honor  of  knowing  many  extinguished  persons. 
I  am  on  terms  of  the  greatest  contumacy  with  the  Court  of 
Aldermen,  who  first  recommended  your  weekly  dromedary 
to  my  notice,  knowing  that  I  myself  was  a  great  literati. 
When  I  am  at  home,  and  in  the  fajnily  way,  I  make  Lavy 
read  it  to  me,  as  I  consider  you  the  censure  of  the  anni- 
versary, and  a  great  upholder  of  moral  destruction. 

When  I  came  here,  I  began  reading  Mechanics  (written 
by  that  gentleman  whose  name  you  whistle).  I  thought  it 
would  be  something  like  the  Mechanics  Magazine,  which 
my  poor  dear  Ram  used  to  make  me  read  to  him,  but  I 
found  them  very  foolish.  What  do  I  want  to  know  about 
weights  and  measures  and  bull's-eyes,  when  I  have  left  off 
trading  ?  I  have  therefore  begun  a  course  of  ugly-physics, 
which  are  very  odd,  and  written  by  the  Marquis  of  Spin- 
ningtoes. 

I  think  the  Library  of  Trinity  College  is  one  of  the  most 
admirable  objects  here.     T  saw  tlie  busks  of  several  gentle- 


MRS.    11AM6B0TT0M   IN   CAMBRIDGE.  3 

meQ  wliose  statutes  I  had  seen  at  Room,  and  who  all  re- 
ceived their  edification  at  that  College.  There  was  Aris- 
tocracy who  wrote  farces  for  the  Olympic  Theatre,  and 
Democracy  who  was  a  laughing  philosophy. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  my  son  George  Frederick  is 
entered  at  St.  John's,  because  I  heard  that  they  take  most 
care  of  their  morals  at  that  College.  I  called  on  the  tutor, 
who  received  myself  and  son  very  politely,  and  said  he  had 
no  doubt  my  son  would  be  a  tripod,  and  he  hoped  per- 
spired higher  than  polly,  which  I  did  not  like.  I  am  going 
to  give  a  tea  at  my  house,  when  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see 
yourself  and  children. 

Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient  and  affectionate 

Dorothea  Julia  Ramsbottom. 


A  STATEMENT   OF  FAX   RELATIVE  TO   THE 
LATE   MURDER. 

BY     D.    J.    RAMS  BOTTOM. 

"  Come  I  to  speak  in  C'a\sar\s  funeral." 

Milton,  Jilius  C^sak,  Act  III. 

Ox  Wednesday  the  3d  of  June  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  back 
parlor  taking  tea,  young  Fi-ederick  Tudge  entered  the 
room  ;  I  reserved  from  his  disle veiled  hair  and  vegetated 
appearance,  that  something  Avas  praying  on  his  vittles. 
AVhen  I  heard  from  him  the  cause  of  his  vegetation,  I  was 
putrified  !  I  stood  transfigured  !  His  father,  the  Editor  of 
''  The  Snob,''  had  been  macerated  in  the  most  sanguine 
manner.  The  drops  of  compassion  refused  my  eyes,  for  I 
thought  of  him,  whom  I  had  lately  seen  high  in  health  and 
happiness  ;  that  ingenious  indivisable,  who  often  and  often 
when  seated  alone  with  me  has  '•  made  the  table  roar,"  as 
the  poet  has  it.  and  whose  constant  aim  in  his  weakly 
dromedary  was  to  delight  as  well  as  to  reprove.  His  son 
Frederick,  too  young  to  be  acquainted  with  the  art  of 
literal  imposition,  has  commissioned  nie  to  excommunicate 
.the  circumstances  of  his  death,  and  call  down  the  anger  of 
the  Proctors  and  Court  of  Aldermen  on  the  phlogitious 
perforators  of  the  deed. 


4  CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  ^'THE   SNOB." 

It  appears  that  as  he  was  taking  his  customary  rendez- 
vous by  the  side  of  Trumpington  Ditch,  he  was  stopped  by 
some  men  in  under-gravy  dresses,  who  put  a  pitch-plaster 
on  him,  which  completely  developed  his  nose  and  eyes,  or, 
as  Shakespeare  says,  "his  visible  ray."  He  was  then 
dragged  into  a  held,  and  the  horrid  deed  was  replete  ! 
Such  are  the  circumstances  of  his  deatli ;  but  Mr.  Tudge 
died  like  W'riggle-us,  game  to  the  last ;  or  like  Caesar  in 
that  beautiful  faction  of  the  poet,  with  which  I  have 
headed  my  remarks,  I  mean  him  who  wanted  to  be  Poop  of 
Room,  but  was  killed  by  two  Brutes,  and  the  fascinating 
iiands  of  a  perspiring  Senate. 

With  the  most  sanguinary  hopes  that  the  Anniversary 
and  Tow^n  will  persecute  an  inquiry  into  this  dreadful 
action,  I  will  conclude  my  repeal  to  the  pathetic  reader ; 
and  if  by  such  a  misrepresentation  of  fax,  I  have  been 
enabled  to  awaken  an  apathy  for  the  children  of  the  late 
Mr.  Tudge,  who  are  left  in  the  most  desultory  state,  I  shall 
feel  the  satisfaction  of  having  exorcised  my  pen  in  the 
cause  of  Malevolence,  and  soothed  the  inflictions  of  indig- 
nant Misery. 

D.  J.  Ramsbottom. 

P.S.  —  The  publisher  requests  me  to  state  that  the 
present  No.  is  published  from  the  ]\IS.  found  in  Mr. 
Tudge's  pocket,  and  one  more  number  will  be  soon  forth- 
coming containing  his  inhuman  papers. 


TIMBUCTOO. 

To  THE  Editor  of  "  The  Snob." 

Si7\  —  Though  your  name  be  "  Snob,"  I  trust  you  Avill 
not  refuse  this  tiny  "  Poem  of  a  Gownsman,"  which  was 
unluckily  not  finished  on  the  day  appointed  for  delivery  of 
the  several  copies  of  verses  on  Timbuctoo.  I  thought,  sir, 
it  would  be  a  pity  that  such  a  poem  should  be  lost  to  the 
world ;  and  conceiving  "  The  Snob  "  to  be  the  most  widely 
circulated  periodical  in  Europe,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
submitting  it  for  insertion  or  approbation. 

I  am.  Sir,  yours,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  T. 


TIME  UC  TOO. 


riu'  situation. 


Tlif  uatui'al 
history. 


The  liou  hunt. 


Their  lives  at 
lioine. 


TiMBUCTOO. 

In  Africa  (a  quarter  of  the  world) 

Men's  skins  are  black,  their  hair  is  crisp  and 

curled ; 
And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public  view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo. 
There  stalks  the  tiger, —  there  the  lion  roars  5 
Who  sometimes  eats  the  luckless  blackamoors  ; 
All  that  he  leaves  of  them  the  monster  throws 
To    jackals,    vultures,   dogs,    cats,    kites,    and 

crows. 
His  hunger  thus  the  forest  monarch  gluts. 
And  then  lies  down  'neath  trees  called  cocoa 

nuts.  10 

Quick    issue    out,    with  musket,    torch,   and 

brand, 
The  sturdy  blackamoors,  a  dusky  band  ! 
The   beast   is    found,  —  pop   goes   the   muske- 

toons,  — 
The  lion  falls,  covered  with  horrid  wounds. 

At  home  their  lives  in  pleasure  always  flow,  15 
But  many  have  a  different  lot  to  know ! 


Lines  1  aiul  2.     See  Guthrie's  Geography. 

The  site  of  Timbuctoo  is  doubtful;  tlie  Author  has  neatly  expressed 
this  in  the  Poem,  at  the  same  time  giving  us  some  slight  hints  relative 
to  its  situation. 

Lime  5.     So  Horace —  '*  leonum  arida  nutrix." 

Line  8.     Thus  Apollo  i?.(l}Qtu  rev/*  y.iieaatv. 

Oiunoini  re  nctni 

Line  5-10.  How  skilfully  introduced  are  the  animal  and  vegetable 
productions  of  Africa!  It  is  worthy  to  remark  the  various  garments 
in  wliich  the  Poet  hath  clothed  the  Lion.  He  is  called,  1st,  the  Lion; 
2d,  the  Monster  (for  he  is  very  large);  and  3d,  the  Forest  Monarch, 
which  he  undoubtedly  is. 

Line  11-14.  The  Author  confesses  himself  under  peculiar  obliga- 
tions to  Denham's  and  Clapperton's  Travels,  as  they  suggested  to  him 
the  spirited  description  contained  in  these  lines. 

Line  lo.  "  Pop  goes  the  musketoons."  A  learned  friend  suggested 
'•  Bang"  as  a  stronger  expression;  but  as  African  gunpowder  is  noto- 
riously bad,  the  Author  thought  "  Pop"  the  better  word. 

Line  15-18.  A  concise  but  affecting  description  is  here  given  of 
the  domestic  habits  of  the  people,  —  the  infamous  manner  in  which 
they  are  entrapped  and  sold  as  slaves  is  described,  —  and  the  whole 
ends  with  an  appropriate  moral  sentiment.  The  Poem  might  here 
finish,  but  the  spirit  of  the  bard  penetrates  the  veil  of  futurity,  and 
from  it  cuts  off  a  bright  piece  for  the  hitherto  unfortunate  Africans,  as 
the  following  beautiful  lines  amply  exemplify. 


CONTRIBUTIOXS    TO    -THE   SNOB.'' 


Abroinl. 

Reflect  ions  on 
the  foregoing. 


They're  often  cauglit,  and  sold  as  slaves,  alas ! 
Thus  men  from  highest  joy  to  sorrow  pass. 
Yet  though  thy  monarchs  and  thy  nobles  boil 
Rack  and  molasses  in  Jamaica's  isle  !  20 

Desolate  Af ric !  thou  art  lovely  yet !  ! 
One  heart  yet  beats  which  ne'er  shall  thee  for- 
get. 
What  though  thy  maidens  are  a  blackish  brown, 
Does  virtue  dwell  in  whiter  breasts  alone  ? 
Oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no,  oh  no !  25 

It  shall  not,  must  not,  cannot,  e'er  be  so. 
The  day  shall  come  when  Albion's  self  shall 

feel 
Stern  Afric's  wrath,  and  writhe  'neath  Afric's 

steel. 
I  see  her  tribes  the  hill  of  glory  mount. 
And  sell  their  sugars  on  their  own  account ;   30 
While  round  her  throne  the  prostrate  nations 

come, 
Sue  for  her  rice,  and  barter  for  her  rum.  32 


It  may  perhaps  be  remarked  that  the  Author  has  here  "  changed 
his  hand;"  he  answers  that  it  was  his  intention  so  to  do.  Before  it 
was  his  endeavor  to  be  elegant  and  concise,  it  is  now  his  wish  to  be 
enthusiastic  and  magnificent.  He  trusts  the  Header  will  perceive  the 
aptness  with  which  he  hath  changed  his  style:  when  he  narrated  facts 
he  was  calm,  when  he  enters  on  prophecy  he  is  fervid. 

The  enthusiasm  which  he  feels  is  beautifully  expressed  in  lines  25, 
26.  He  thinks  he  has  very  successfully  imitated  in  the  last  six  lines 
the  best  manner  of  Mr.  Pope,  and  in  lines  19-26  the  pathetic  elegance 
of  the  Author  of  Australasia  and  Athens. 

The  Author  cannot  conclude  without  declaring  that  his  aim  in  writ- 
ing this  Poem  will  be  fully  accomplished,  if  he  can  infuse  in  the 
breasts  of  Englishmen  a  sense  of  the  danger  in  which  they  lie.  Yes 
—  Africa!  If  he  can  awaken  one  particle  of  sympathy  for  thy  sor- 
rows, of  love  for  thy  land,  of  admiration  for  thy  virtue,  he  shall  sink 
into  the  grave  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  he  has  raised  esteem 
where  before  there  was  contempt,  and  has  kindled  the  flame  of  hope 
on  the  smouldering  ashes  of  Despair! 


contributions  to  -the  national 
standard;' 

[1833.] 


FOREIGN   CORRESPOXDEXCE. 

Pakis,  Saturday,  June  22. 

This  is  a  most  unfavorable  moment  for  commencing  a 
Parisian  correspondence.  All  the  world  is  gone  into  the 
country,  with  the  exception  of  the  deputies,  who  are  occu- 
pied in  voting  supplies  ;  an  occupation  necessary,  but  not 
romantic,  and  uninteresting  to  the  half  million  of  English- 
men who  peruse  the  "  National  Standard."  However,  in 
all  this  dearth  of  political  and  literary  news,  the  people  of 
France  are  always  rich  enough  in  absurdities  to  occupy  and 
amuse  an  English  looker-on.  I  had  intended,  after  crossing 
the  Channel  to  Boulogne,  to  have  staid  there  for  a  while, 
and  to  have  made  some  profound  remarks  on  the  natives  of 
that  town,  but  of  these,  I  believe,  few  exist ;  they  have 
been  driven  out  by  the  English  settlers,  one  of  whom  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  see.  He  did  not  speak  much,  but 
swore  loudly  ;  he  was  dressed  in  a  jacket  and  a  pair  of  mar- 
itime inexpressibles,  which  showed  off  his  lower  man  to 
much  advantage.  This  animal,  on  being  questioned,  in- 
formed me  that  the  town  was  d d  pretty,  the  society 

d d   pleasant,  balls   delightful,  and  cookery  excellent. 

On  this  hint,  having  become  famished  during  a  long  and 
stormy  voyage,  I  requested  the  waiter  of  the  hotel  to  pro- 
cure some  of  the  delicacies  mentioned  b}*  the  settler.  In 
an  hour  he  returned  with  breakfast :  the  coifee  was  thin, 
the  butter  bad,  the  bread  sour,  the  delicacies,  mutton-chops. 
This  was  too  much  for  human  patience.  I  bade  adieu  to 
the  settler,  and  set  off  for  Paris  forthwith. 

I  was  surprised  and  delighted  with  the  great  progress 
made  by  the  Parisians  since  last  3-ear.     Talk  of  the  '•  march 


8      CONTRIBUTIOXS    TO   ^^  NATIONAL  STANDARD:' 

of  mind  •'  in  England,  La  jeune  France  completely  dis- 
tances ns  :  all  creeds,  political,  literary,  and  religious,  have 
undergone  equal  revolutions,  and  met  with  equal  contempt. 
Churches,  theatres,  painters,  booksellers,  kings,  and  poets, 
have  all  bowed  before  this  awful  spirit  of  improvement, 
this  tremendous  "  Zeitgeist."  In  poetry  and  works  of  fic- 
tion, this  change  is  most  remarkable.  I  have  collected  one 
or  two  specimens,  which  I  assure  you  are  taken  from  works 
universally  read  and  admired.  I  have,  however,  been 
obliged  to  confine  ourselves  to  the  terrific  ;  the  tender  parts 
are  much  too  tender  for  English  readers.  In  England  it 
was  scarcely  permitted  in  former  days  to  speak  of  such  a 
book,  as  the  Memoirs  of  the  celebrated  M.  de  Faublas  ;  in 
France  it  was  only  "  a  book  of  the  boudoir,"  taken  in  private 
by  ladies,  like  their  cherry-brandy ;  now  the  book  is  public 
property.  It  is  read  by  the  children,  and  acted  at  the 
theatres  ;  and  for  Faublas  himself,  he  is  an  absolute  Joseph, 
compared  to  the  Satanico-Byronico  heroes  of  the  present 
school  of  romance.  As  for  murders,  etc.,  mere  Newgate- 
Calendar  crimes,  they  are  absolute  drugs  in  the  literary 
market.  Young  France  requires  something  infinitely  more 
piquant  than  an  ordinary  hanging  matter,  or  a  common- 
place crwi.  con.  To  succeed,  to  gain  a  reputation,  and  to 
satisfy  La  jeune  France,  you  must  accurately  represent  all 
the  anatomical  peculiarities  attending  the  murder,  or  crime 
in  question  :  you  must  dilate  on  the  clotted  blood,  rejoice 
over  the  scattered  brains,  particularize  the  sores  and 
bruises,  the  quivering  muscles,  and  the  gaping  wounds  ;  the 
more  faithful,  the  more  natural;  the  more  natural,  the 
more  creditable  to  the  author,  and  the  more  agreeable  to 
La  jeune  France. 

I  have  before  me  a  pleasing  work  with  the  following 
delectable  title  :  "  Champavert :  Immoral  Tales.  ByPetrus 
Borel  the  Lycanthrope ! "  After  having  perused  this 
pretty  little  book,  I  give  the  following  summary  of  it,  for 
the  benefit  of  English  readers. 

Tale  1.  "  M.  de  L'Argentiere,"  contains  a  rape,  a  murder,  an 
execution. 

Tale  2.  "  Jaquez  Barraou,"  concludes  thus  : 

'•  Immediately  he  seized  him  by  the  throat  —  the  blood 
gushed  out,  and  Juan  screamed  aloud,  falling  on  one  knee 
and  seizing  Barraou  by  the  thigh  ;  who  in  turn,  fastened  on 
his  hair,  and  struck  him  on  the  loins,  while,  with  a  back- 
stroke, //  lit  I  efn'ije  le  ventre.     (The  manoeuvre  is  extraor- 


FOREIGN   CORRESPOXDEXCE.  9 

dinaiy,  and  the  language  utterly  untranslatable.)  They 
lolled  on  the  ground :  now  Juan  is  uppermost,  now  Jaquez  — 
they  roar  and  writhe  I 

"  Juan  lifted  his  arm,  and  broke  his  dagger  against  the 
wall.  Jaquez  nailed  his  in  Juan's  throat !  Covered  with 
wounds  and  blood,  uttering  horrid  screams,  they  seemed  a 
mere  mass  of  blood  flowing  and  curdling !  Thousands  of 
obscene  flies  and  beetles  might  be  seen  hovering  round  their 
mouths  and  nostrils,  and  buzzing  round  the  sores  of  their 
wounds. 

"  Towards  night  a  man  stumbled  over  the  corpses.  '  They 
are  only  negroes,'  said  he ;  and  went  his  way." 

It  is,  as  the  reader  will  see,  quite  impossible  to  translate 
properly  this  elegant  passage  ;  it  displays  a  force,  originality, 
and  good  taste,  which  can  never  be  transferred  to  our 
language. 

Tale  3.  ''  Andrea  Vesalius.*'  Three  adulteries,  four  mur- 
ders. The  victims  are  a  wife  and  her  three  lovers,  murdered 
first,  and  dissected  afterwards,  by  Andrea  Vesalius. 

Tale  4.  ''Three-fingered  Jack."  Contains  only  one  sui- 
cide, and  the  death  of  Jack  in  fair  fight. 

Tale  5.  "Dina.''     One  rape,  one  murder,  one  suicide. 


—  very  prettily  described. 

Tale  7.  "  Chamixivert."  This  is  the  history  of  Lycan- 
thrope  himself.  He  was  an  extraordinary  and  melancholy 
young  man,  remarkable  for  a  strong  poetical  genius  and  a 
long  beard,  both  of  which  he  had  manifested  from  the  age 
of  seventeen.  This  history  contains  a  couple  of  seductions, 
a  child  murder,  and  two  suicides.  "Whether  Champavert 
were  a  fictitious  or  real  personage,  I  know  not;  there  is, 
however,  a  long  circumstantial  account  of  his  suicide  here 
given ;  and  I  trust,  for  the  honor  of  France,  that  the 
Lycanthrope  actually  lived  and  died  in  the  manner  described 
in  the  book. 

j\Iy  dear  young  ladies,  who  are  partial  to  Lord  Byron, 
and  read  Don  Juan  slyly  in  the  evening ;  who  admire  French 
fashions,  and  dishes,  and  romances,  —  it  is  for  your  profit 
and  amusement  that  this  summary  has  been  made.  You 
will  see  by  it  how  far  this  great  nation  excels  us  in  genius 
and  imagination,  even  though  Bulwer  and  D'Israeli  still 
live  and  write. 

The  costume  of  Jeune  France  is  as  extraordinary  as  its 
literature.     I  have  sent  a  specimen,  which  i  discovered  the 


10    coNTJiiin'Tioys  to  ^^ national  standard:' 

otlier  day  in  the  Tuileries.  It  had  just  been  reading  the 
Tn'l)une,\im\  was  leaning  poetically  against  a  tree;  it  had 
on  a  red  neckcloth  and  -a  black  flowing  mane ;  a  stick  or 
club,  intended  for  ornament  as  well  as  use ;  and  a  pair  of 
large  though  innocent  spurs,  which  had  never  injured  any- 
thing except  the  pantaloons  of  the  individual  who  wore 
them.  Xear  it  was  sitting  an  old  gentleman,  who  is 
generally  to  be  seen  of  a  sunny  day  in  the  Tuileries,  reading 
his  Crebillon  or  his  prayer-book:  a  living  illustration  of 
times  past,  —  a  strange  contrast  with  times  present !  * 

Paris,  Saturday,  June  29. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  "National  Standard,"  though 
the  best  conducted  Journal  in  the  world,  has  a  most  sense- 
less, impotent,  and  unmeaning  title  :  National  Standard ; 
what  does  it  signify  ?  It  may  be  a  newspaper,  or  a  measure 
for  brandy ;  a  banner  for  King  William,  or  a  flag  for  King 
Cobbett:  you  should  take  advice  by  the  papers  of  this 
country,  and  fix  on  a  name  more  striking.  These  observa- 
tions have  been  inspired  by  the  title  of  a  journal  which  is 
about  to  appear  here,  "  Le  Necrologe  :  Journal  des  Morts ;" 
a  pretty  romantic  and  melancholy  title,  printed  on  a  senti- 
mental paper,  handsomely  edged  with  black,  and  bearing  an 
urn  for  a  frontispiece.  0  death !  0  life  !  0  jeune  France, 
what  a  triumph  of  art  and  taste  is  here  !  Fancy  "  The 
Mourning  Advertiser;  the  Sextoii's  Miscellany ;  The  Raw 
Head  and  Bloody  Bones  ;  the  Undertaker's  Manual ;  the 
Pickaxe,  or  Graved iygfer's  Vade  Mecum,''^  published  every 
morning  for  breakfast,  and  treating  of  all  the  most  fashion- 
able deaths,  murders,  suicides,  and  executions  in  Europe. 
What  a  pleasing  study  for  melancholy  young  men  and 
tender  young  ladies !  Then  one  has  the  advantage  of 
swallowing  sentiment  and  history  at  the  same  time,  and  (as 
Figaro  says),  while  living,  one  is  a  subscriber  to  it ;  when 
dead,  an  article.  The  November  suicides  in  England  used 
to  be  a  staple  article  of  French  satire  ;  they  used  to  think 
that  London  Bridge  was  built  for  the  mere  convenience  of 
throwing  one's  self  from  it  into  the  Thames,  and  that  our 
lamp-posts  were  only  cast-iron  substitutes  for  gibbets  :  in 
regard  to  lamp-posts,  however,  we  borrowed  our  learning  from 
them  ;  and,  as  to  suicides,  the  advantage  is  now  decidedly  on 

*  Here,  in  The  National  Standard,  appears  an  admirable  sketch,  which, 
indifferently  drawn  as  it  is,  has  much  of  the  spirit  and  humor  of  Thacke- 
ray's maturer  ilkistration  of  his  own  text. 


FOREIGN   CORRESPONDENCE.  11 

the  French  side.  Half  a  dozen  fellows  '"'asphixient  "  them- 
selves eveiy  morning,  and  servant  maids  with  low  spirits 
and  wages,  generally  adopt  this  means  of  retirement,  as  one 
easy,  expeditious,  and  certain.  I  heard  just  now  of  a  young 
gentleman  who  had  arrived  at  the  mature  age  of  sixteen,  and 
of  another  more  venerable  by  a  couple  of  years,  who  some- 
time ago  brought  their  lives  to  a  conclusion  in  charcoal. 
They  had,  together,  written  a  drama,  which  was  represented 
at  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  and  succeeded;  it  procured  for 
them,  no  doubt,  a  few  dozen  francs,  and  an  eternity  of  half 
a  dozen  nights,  which  seemed  entirely  to  answer  their  hopes 
and  satisfy  their  ambition.  Their  enjoyment  was  complete, 
their  cup  of  fame  was  full ;  and  they  determined,  like  young 
sages  as  they  were,  to  retire  from  the  world  before  their 
happiness  should  fade,  or  their  glory  tarnish,  thinking  no 
doubt  that  their  death,  their  last  and  noblest  action,  would 
establish  beyond  all  question  their  spiritual  immortality. 

So  they  purchased  the  means  of  their  death  (it  is  very 
cheap,  twopenny  worth  will  kill  half  a  thousand  young 
poets) ;  they  retired  to  their  sixidnie,  they  shut  out  the 
Avorld,  and  closed  up  the  windows ;  and  when,  some  hours 
after,  the  door  of  their  apartment  was  forced  open,  their 
spirits  and  the  charcoal-smoke  flew  out  together,  leaving 
only  the  two  corpses  to  be  admired  by  the  public,  and  buried 
by  the  same.  In  France  they  dropped  tears  on  their  bodies ; 
they  would  have  employed  stakes,  instead  of  tears,  in  our 
less  romantic  country.  However,  peace  be  to  their  ashes  ! 
they  are  now,  no  doubt,  comfortably  situated  in  that  heaven 
where  they  will  find  Cato  and  Addison,  and  Eustace  Budgell, 
and  all  the  suicidal  philosophers ;  and  some  day  or  other, 
Liston,  Talma,  and  all  the  great  tragedians. 

I  asked  my  informer  the  names  of  these  young  unfortu- 
nates, and  the  title  of  their  tragedy.  He  had  forgotten 
both  !     So  much  for  their  reputation. 

The  theatres  are  in  a  flourishing  condition  :  they  have  all 
at  this  moment  some  piece  of  peculiar  attraction.  At  the 
Amhigu  Comique  is  an  edifying  representation  of  "Belshaz- 
zar's  Feast."  The  second  act  discovers  a  number  of 
melancholy  Israelites  sitting  round  the  waters  of  Babylon, 
with  their  harps  on  the  willows  I  A  Babylonian  says  to  the 
leader  of  the  chorus,  "Sing  us  one  of  the  songs  of  Zion;" 
the  chorus  answers,  "'  How  can  we  sing  in  a  strange  land  ?  " 
and  so  on :  the  whole  piece  is  a  scandalous  parody  of  the 
Scripture,  made  up   with   French   sentiment   and    French 


12      CONTRIBUTIONS    TO   '^ NATIONAL   STANDARD." 

decency.  A  large  family  of  children  were  behind  me,  look- 
ing, with  much  interest  and  edification,  at  the  Queen  rising 
from  her  bath  I  This  piece  concludes  with  a  superb  imita- 
tion of  Martin's  picture  of  Belshazzar.  Another  piece  at 
the  Forte  St.  Martin,  called  "Bergami,"  vivifies  Hayter's 
picture  of  the  House  of  Lords,  at  Queen  Caroline's  trial. 
There  was  a  report  this  morning  that  a  courier  had  arrived 
from  England,  for  the  express  purpose  of  forbidding  this 
piece ;  and  supposing,  from  that  circumstance,  that  it  must 
contain  something  very  terrible,  I  sallied  to  the  Forte  St. 
Martin  to  see  it;  but  I  was  sadly  disappointed:  for  there 
was  nothing  in  it  but  a  little  Platonic  dialogue  between 
Bergami,  who  is  an  angel,  and  the  queen,  who  is  an  injured 
woman.  Bergami  appears  first  in  the  character  of  a  post- 
bo}^,  and  makes  such  delightful  remarks  on  the  weather,  the 
scenery,  and  Italian  politics,  that  the  warm-hearted  queen 
is  subdued  at  once,  and  makes  him  forthwith  her  equerry. 
The  first  act  ends,  and  the  queen  gets  into  a  carriage.  In 
the  second  she  gets  into  a  packet  (that  unlucky  packet !) ; 
in  the  third  she  gets  into  a  balcony  ;  in  the  fourth  she  gets 
into  a  passion,  as  well  she  may,  since  Bergami  is  assassinated 
by  Lord  Ashley  (on  which  fact  we  beg  to  congratulate  his 
lordship)  ;  and  accordingly,  she  goes  to  the  House  of  Lords 
to  make  her  complaint  against  him  for  this  act  of  unpolite- 
ness  ;  here  the  scene  is  very  animated  (it  is  taken  from  the 
picture).  Sir  Brougham  makes  a  speech  about  injured 
women,  patriotism,  and  so  forth ;  Lord  Eldon  replies,  the 
Ministerial  bench  cheers,  the  Opposition  jeers,  and  the 
queen  comes  in  majestically,  bowing  right  and  left,  and 
uttering  the  noblest  sentiments.  Presently  a  row  is  heard 
in  the  streets :  the  mob  is  in  arms  for  the  queen !  Lord 
Eldon  motions  the  Minister  of  War ;  he  rushes  out  to  quell 
the  disturbance,  the  queen  follows  him,  but  the  attempts 
of  both  are  ineffectual ;  windows  are  broken,  stones  are 
flung.  Lord  Eldon  disappears.  Sir  Brougham  bolts,  and  Lord 
Liverpool  (a  stout  man  in  a  white  waistcoat,  with  a  large 
tin  star)  falls  to  the  earth,  struck  violently  in  the  stomach 
with  a  leather  brick-bat,  and  the  curtain,  of  course,  drops 
with  the  Prime  Minister.  The  French  nation  was  exalted 
by  this  exhibition  to  a  pitch  of  immoderate  enthusiasm,  and 
called  stoutly  for  the  Marseillaise.  I  did  not  see  the  fifth 
act,  in  which  the  queen  is  poisoned  (Lord  Ashley  again !), 
but  returned  home  to  give  an  account  of  this  strange  tragedy. 
There  is  a  third  play,  of  much  more  importance  than  the 


FOREIGN  CORRESPONDENCE.  13 

two  former,  of  whicli  I  had  wished  to  give  some  account, 
'•  Les  Enfans  d'Edouard,"'  by  M.  Casimir  Delavigne,  one  of 
the  best-acted  tragedies  I  had  ever  the  good  fortune  to  see  ; 
but  I  have  made  this  letter  so  long,  that  I  must  reserve  this 
for  some  future  day.  I  could  not,  however,  refrain  from 
sending  a  little  sketch  of  Ligier,*  who  performs  the  part  of 
Richard,  in  this  play,  in  a  manner,  I  think,  which  Kean 
never  equalled. 

Beside  Lig;ier  is  the  admirable  Mademoiselle  Mars,  and 
that  most  charming,  gay,  graceful,  naive  actress,  ^ladame 
Anais  Aubert.  It  would  be  worth  an  English  actor's  while 
to  come  to  Paris,  and  study  the  excellent  manner  of  the 
French  comedians  ;  even  Cooper  might  profit  by  it,  and 
Diddear  go  away  from  the  study  a  wiser  and  better  man. 
Here  is  too  much  about  theatres,  you  will  say  ;  but  after 
all,  is  not  this  subject  as  serious  as  any  other  ? 


Thp:  Charruas. 

Paris,  July  5. 

The  wondering  reader  may  fancy  that  the  scene  here 
given  was  designed  in  the  wilds  of  America,  rather  than  in 
this  gay  city  of  Paris  ;  but  he  will  see,  if  he  takes  the 
trouble  of  reading  the  following  article  (from  the  pen  of 
M.  Jules  Janin),  how  the  figures  above  f  represent  three 
unfortunate  Charruas  Indians,  who  have  quitted  South 
America  to  shiver  under  the  cold  Parisian  sun. 

"  Allons  !  let  us  go  and  see  the  savages  ;  they  are  lodged 
in  the  Champs  Elysees,  in  one  of  those  half-built  houses, 
those  ruins  of  yesterday,  the  view  of  which  is  sad  without 
being  solemn.  Here  are  the  heroes  of  our  drama,  not  taller 
than  the  brave  Agamemnons  and  Alexanders  of  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais,  but  well-built  and  active,  bold  cavaliers,  and  gal- 
lant horse-tamers.  They  are  perfidious,  idle,  revengeful, 
cruel  cannibals,  some  of  them  ;  perfect  dramatic  characters, 
in  fact.  In  truth,  they  possess  all  the  qualities  requisite 
for  the  modern  drama  ;  they  can  ride,  fight,  betray,  revenge, 
assassinate,  and  eat  raw  flesh  ;  it  is  true  that  they  don't 
know  a  word  of  French  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  it  is  all  the 
better  for  the  theatre  nowadays. 

*  The  sketch  appears  with  ihe  letter  in  The  National  Standard:  we 
regret  to  be  unable  to  reproduce  it  here.  —  Ed. 

t  A  sketch  of  the  Charruas  headed  this  letter  in  The  National  Stan- 
dard.— Ed. 


14     CONTRIBUTIONS    TO  ''NATIONAL   STANDARD." 

*'  When  I  saw  them  huddled  together  in  their  court,  I 
declare  I  thought  that  I  was  looking  at  some  modern  trag- 
edy :  these  brave  savages,  wore  costumes  hideous  and  fanci- 
ful;  they  Avere  all  three  seated  in  different  solemn  atti- 
tudes. First,  the  cacique,  with  hair  uncombed,  and  fierce 
and  lieavy  looks  ;  he  would  have  made  a  capital  tyrant  for 
a  melodrama :  the  next,  a  lean,  livid  animal,  with  a  side- 
long look,  and  an  indefinable  smile,  reminded  me  of 
Cooper's  Magna ;  the  third  was  gay,  careless,  and  merry 
enough :  and  then  came  the  timid  and  gentle  Guynuya. 
She  sate  alone  in  the  corner  of  the  court,  with  her  head  on 
her  bosom,  bending  under  the  weight  of  her  captivity,  like 
a  princess  of  Ilium  of  old.  This  woman  is  truly  sublime  : 
it  is  true  she  is  fickle  and  faithless,  that  she  loves  pleasure 
and  change,  that  she  has  not  our  ideas  of  conjugal  fidelity ; 
but  she  has  more  passion  and  love  than  all  the  heroines  of 
our  tragedy  ;  and  above  all,  she  has  the  passion  of  grief.  I 
was  much  touched  by  this  woman  and  her  sorrows  ;  her 
arms  are  all  scarred  over  with  wounds,  and  each  of  these 
wounds  is  the  history  of  a  sorrow.  They  were  inflicted  by 
herself :  there  is  a  scar  for  each  friend  she  has  lost ;  for 
every  child  of  which  she  has  been  deprived  there  is  a  finger 
gone ;  she  has  lost  two  fingers,  and  there  are  near  eighty 
scars  on  her  arm ;  and  this  woman  is  not  yet  eighteen  years 
old! 

"  Have  you,  in  all  the  range  of  your  drama,  such  a 
heroine  as  this  ?  Have  you,  in  all  your  poetry,  so  profound 
a  grief  as  hers  ?  And,  for  heroes,  here  is  one  whose  shoul- 
der has  been  laid  open  by  a  hatchet ;  and  who,  for  the  last 
miserable  white  Frenchwoman,  who  blunders  through  your 
ballets  and  your  choruses,  would  go  gladly  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  and  defy  a  dozen  gentlemen  at  once  !  You  call 
your  heroes  cruel,  and  your  heroines  tender  !  Here  is  a 
hero  who  poisons  his  own  arrows,  and  a  woman  who  gashes 
her  arms  with  a  wicked  knife  with  as  much  ease  as  you 
would  flourish  a  fan.  Poor  dramatists  !  See  how  utterly 
you  are  beaten  off  your  ground  by  the  first  arrival  from  the 
plains  of  Paraguay.  Thus,  in  fact,  it  is :  as  soon  as  one 
quits  the  poetical  drama  for  that  of  the  heart,  and  literary 
truth  for  common  truth,  one  must  expect  to  be  vanquished 
by  the  first  matter-of-fact  competitor,  whether  savage  or 
not ;  by  all  which,  I  mean  to  say,  as  Lord  Byron  has  said 
before,  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction. 

"Now,  tlioso  heroes  of  the  Champs  Ely  sees  are  as  poetic 


FOREIGN   CORRESPONDENCE.  15 

as  the  heroes  of  Homer.  Vaimaca  Peru  is  a  great  chief,  a 
veritable  cacique,  a  specimen,  in  fact,  of  vagabond  royalty, 
no  more  called  on  to  uncover  his  head  than  are  other  vaga- 
bond royalties.  Senaque  is  the  devoted  friend  of  his  chief, 
a  subject  faithful  and  sorrowful,  more  sorrowful  indeed 
than  his  destitute  master  ;  and  this  is  a  common  case  about 
ruined  thrones.  The  next,  the  j^oung  man,  is  careless  and 
brave ;  and,  although  conquered,  happy  still,  because  he  is 
young,  and  looks  to  the  future.  The  woman  Guynuya  is 
truly  the  epic  heroine,  resigned  to  her  fate ;  her  very  smile 
is  full  of  tears,  her  sufferings  are  consoled  by  her  weak- 
nesses. Do  you  know  that  these  savages  have  come  from 
the  extremity  of  Southern  America  ?  that  they  were  made 
prisoners  after  long  and  bloody  battles  ;  that  they  have 
come  hither  to  Paris,  as  a  last  asylum  ;  and  that  this  is  the 
St.  Helena  of  the  vanquished  cacique  ?  For  a  long  time 
they  fought  under  liibera  ;  a  year  ago  their  tribe  was  de- 
stroyed, and  they  fled  into  the  desert,  bearing  with  them, 
not  their  harps,  like  the  Hebrews,  but  the  skulls  of  their 
enemies,  the  ornaments  of  their  cabins.  And  now,  van- 
quished prisoners,  fugitives,  they  have  come  so  far  to  find 
an  asylum,  and  to  receive  a  visit  of  that  amateur  of  mon- 
sters, M.  Geoff roy  St.  Hilaire. 

"  How  times  are  changed !  Formerly,  when  the  grand 
kingdom  of  France  was  a  Christian  kingdom,  the  arrival  of 
these  savages  would  have  caused  a  sensation  amidst  all  the 
Catholicism  of  l^aris.  There  would  have  been  a  tender 
solicitii.de  evinced  for  the  welfare  of  their  immortal  souls. 
They  would  have  found,  most  likely,  the  king's  mistress  for 
a  godmother,  and  the  king's  brother  for  a  godfather;  they 
would  have  been  the  objects  of  infinite  dissertations,  philo- 
sophical and  religious  :  Jansenists  and  Jesuits  would  have 
disputed  over  these  four  souls  with  a  ferocity  altogether 
ecclesiastical.  Our  savages  meanwhile  would  have  been 
baptized,  feted,  and  amused,  and  sent  back  to  their  country 
loaded  with  presents  and  honors.  At  present,  what  is 
their  fate,  poor  monarchs  of  the  deserts  ?  They  have  been 
received  by  the  Academy  of  Sciences ;  and  next,  they  will 
go  to  St.  Cloud,  and  see  the  king,  that  is,  if  the  master  of 
the  ceremonies  permits  it.  The  director  of  the  opera  will 
give  them  a  box  some  night  when  all  the  boxes  are  empty  ; 
then  they  will  go  to  the  Porte  St.  ]\rartin,  then  to  Fran- 
coni's,  and  then  to  some  cabaret  of  the  lower  order,  where 
the  grisette,  come  out  for  her  Sunday,  will  scarcely  deign 


16     CONTRIBUTIONS   TO  ''NATIONAL   STANDARDr 

to  look  at  them,  seeing  that  she  prefers  her  quadrille  to  all 
the  savages  in  the  world.  Poor  fellows  !  they  will  be 
lucky  enough  if  they  do  not,  like  their  brethren  of  the 
North,*  die  in  the  hospital,  with  a  sister  of  charity  on  each 
side  of  them. 

^''  I  did  not  forget  to  caress  the  ostrich  which  gallops 
about  in  the  court ;  he  is  a  careless  and  gentle  ostrich,  who 
much  pleased  me :  having  nothing  to  give  him,  I  oifered 
him  a  piece  of  money,  which  he  did  me  the  honor  of  accept- 
ing, and  which  he  swallowed  and  pocketed  with  the  grace 
of  a  civilized  individual.  Jules  Janin." 

I  have  curtailed  this  article  of  M.  Janin's,  which  is,  I 
think,  a  tolerable  specimen  of  the  French  style  of  periodical 
writing.  It  concludes  with  a  long  paragraph,  expressing 
the  writer's  joy  at  escaping  from  the  savages  into  the 
Champs  Elysees  ;  and  some  remarks  on  the  civilized  world 
in  general.  The  paragraph  proves  that  M.  Jan  in  was  in  a 
fright,  and  no  wonder ;  three  cannibals  with  knives  and 
poisoned  arrows  are  not  pleasant  companions  even  for  a 
brave  Frenchman.  In  the  sketch  given  above,  the  stout 
man  is  the  chief ;  the  lady  Guynuya  has  her  back  turned,  a 
piece  of  unpoliteness  in  which  she  persisted  during  the 
whole  of  my  visit.  They  play  cards  all  day,  laugh,  eat  raw 
beef,  and  drink  all  they  can  get. 

Paris,  July  13. 

The  figure  above  f  is  a  copy  of  the  statue  which  shortly 
is  to  decorate  the  column  in  the  Place  Vendome.  It  is/ as 
everybody  knows,  to  be  elevated  about  the  29th  of  the 
month;  but  his  majesty  the  king  of  the  French,  being 
averse  to  emeutes  dejjenses  of  all  kinds,  has  determined  that 
it  shall  be  erected  privily  in  the  night  season,  and  shall 
have  no  needless  extravagance  or  unnecessary  publicity  to 
accompany  its  elevation. 

The  statue  has  been  cast  of  bronze,  or  brass  made  of 
Austrian  cannon  (the  victories  of  Napoleon  are,  luckily, 
not  all  used  up),  and  represents,  as  the  reader  beholds,  the 
little  corporal  in  his  habit  of  war.  The  column,  up  to 
1814,  was  surmounted  with  a  representation  of  the  Em- 

*  The  Osages,  who  were  exhibited  at  Paris  some  years  ago,  and  died 
there. 

t  A  sketch  of  Napoleon  on  the  Vendome  Column  headed  this  letter  in 
The  National  Standard.  —  Ed. 


FOREIGN  CORRESPONDENCE.  17 

peror  XapoleoD,  with  robes  and  sceptre  imperial ;  it  bore 
on  its  base  the  following  sonorous  inscription : 

Xeapolio  Imp.  Aug. 

Monmnentum  Belli  Germanici 

anno  mdcccv. 

Trimesti'e  spatio  profligati 

ex  oere  capto 

Glorise  exercitus  maximi  dicarit. 

In  1814  the  inscription  was  removed,  the  statue  torn 
down,  and  a  dirty  white  flag  replaced  it.  It  seemed  a  lame 
and  impotent  conclusion  to  the  series  of  victories  which  are 
carved  on  the  column  itself,  and  wind  from  the  base  to  the 
summit,  as  if  these  battles  had  been  foui^dit  and  won  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  re-establishing  the  white  flag  aforesaid. 

Next  week,  however.  Napoleon  will  make  his  second 
appearance  on  the  column.  He  certainly  ought  to  make 
a  short  speech  on  the  occasion,  which,  we  should  think, 
would  run  something  in  this  manner. 

The  emperor,  after  having  raised  his  bronze  sp}' glass  to 
his  brazen  eye,  and  regarded  the  multitude  who  are  waiting 
to  hear  his  oration,  begins 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen  !  {Tremendous  applause.) 

"  Unaccustomed  as  I  am  to  public  speaking,  and  over- 
powered by  feelings  of  the  deepest  and  tenderest  nature, 
you  may  readily  fancy  my  inability  to  address  you  with 
the  eloquence  demanded  by  your  presence,  and  by  this 
occasion. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen :  This  is  the  proudest  moment  of 
my  life  !   {Braro,  and  cheers.) 

'^  I  thank  you  for  having  placed  me  in  a  situation  so  safe, 
so  commanding,  and  so  salubrious :  from  this  elevation  I 
can  look  on  most  parts  of  your  city.  I  see  the  churches 
empty,  the  prisons  crowded,  the  gambling-houses  overflow- 
ing ;  who,  with  such  sights  before  him  as  these,  gentlemen, 
and  i/ou,  would  not  be  proud  of  the  name  of  Frenchmen  ? 
(Great  cheers.) 

'•The  tricolor  waves  over  the  Tuileries  as  it  used  in  my 
time.  It  must  be  satisfactory  to  Frenchmen  to  have  re- 
established their  glorious  standard,  and  to  have  banished 
forever  the  old  white  flag;  and,  though  I  confess  myself 
that  I  cannot  perceive  any  other  beneflt  you  have  wrought 
by  your  resistance  to  a  late  family,  you  of  course  can. 
(Applause,  mingled  ivith  some  unseemly  groans  from  the 
police.) 


18     CONTRIBUTIONS   TO  ''NATIONAL  STANDARD." 

>'l  apprehend  that  the  fat  man*  with  the  umbrella, 
whom  1  see  walking  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  is  the 
present  proprietor.  May  I  ask  what  he  has  done  to  de- 
serve such  a  reward  from  you  ?  Does  he  found  his  claim 
on  his  own  merits,  or  on  those  of  his  father  ?  (A  trejiien- 
doiis  row  in  the  crowd :  the  police  x>yoceed  ^o  empoigner  sev- 
eral hundred  individuals^  Go  your  ways"  (said  the 
statue,  who  w^as  what  is  vulgarly  called  a  dab,  at  an 
impromptu)  ;  "  go  your  ways,  happy  Frenchmen !  You 
have  fought,  you  have  struggled,  you  have  conquered :  for 
whom  ?  for  the  fat  man  with  the  umbrella  ! 

"  I  need  not  explain  what  were  my  intentions  and  pros- 
pects, if  I  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  remain  among  you. 
You  were  yourselves  pleased  to  receive  them  wiih  some 
favor.  The  rest  of  Europe,  however,  did  not  look  on  them 
in  the  same  light,  and  expressed  its  opinions  so  strongly, 
that  we,  out  of  mere  politeness,  were  obliged  to  give  up 
our  own. 

"I  confess  myself  that  I  was  somewhat  arbitrary  and 
tyrannical :  but  what  is  our  fat  friend  below  ?  Is  it  not 
better  to  be  awed  by  a  hero  than  to  be  subdued  by  a  money- 
lender ?  to  be  conquered  by  a  sword  than  to  be  knocked 
down  by  an  umbrella?  {Here  there  was  an  immense  cry  of 
"  A  bas  les  Parapluies  ! "   Some  further  arrests  took  place^ 

"Perhaps,  if  it  be  not  a  bore  ("  Go  on^^),  you  will  allow 
me  to  say  a  word  concerning  those  persons  who  so  strongly 
voted  my  own  removal,  and  the  re-establishment  of  the 
white  cloth,  now  folded  up  forever. 

''The  Russians  are  occupied  in  strangling,  murdering, 
and  banishing ;  I  could  not  possibly  have  chosen  for  them 
a  better  occupation. 

"The  English,  with  their  £800,000,000  of  debt,  have 
destroyed  their  old  institutions,  and  have  as  yet  fixed  on 
no  new  ones.  {Here  a  further  crowd  were  inarched  off  by  the 
jyolice.)  I  congratulate  you.  Gentlemen,  they  too  have 
policemen. t 

"The  Portuguese  are  fighting  about  two  brothers,  both  of 
whom  they  detest.  Heaven  preserve  the  right,  whichever 
he  may  be. 

"  From  Italy  there  are  delightful  accounts  of  revolts,  and 
deaths  thereon  consequent. 

*  Napoleon  here  makes  an  irreverent  and  personal  allusion  to  King 
Louis  Pliilippe.  His  stoutness  and  his  umbrella  were  depicted  some 
two  months  ajjo  In  our  paper. 

t   This  struck  us  as  rather  a  vulgar  allusion  on  the  part  of  the  statue. 


FOREIGN   CORRESPONDENCE.  19 

The  Germans  are  arresting  students  for  want  of  a 
better  employment.  The  Spaniards  are  amusing  them- 
selves with  sham  tights :  what  a  pity  they  cannot  be  in- 
dulged with  real  ones ! 

"  And  the  family  !  for  whom  about  five  hundred  thou- 
sand lives  were  sacrificed,  —  where  are  they  ?  The  kiug 
is  doting,  and  the  dauphin  is  mad  in  a  chateau  in  Ger- 
many ;  and  the  duchess  must  divide  her  attentions  between 
her  son  and  her  daughter. 

"And  yourselves,  gentlemen,  you  have  the  freedom  of 
the  press,  —  but  your  papers  are  seized  every  morning,  as 
in  my  time.  You  have  a  republic,  but  beware  how  you 
speak  of  the  king  !  as  in  my  time  also.  You  are  free  ;  but 
you  have  seventeen  forts  to  keep  you  in  order.  I  don't 
recollect  anything  of  the  sort  in  my  time. 

"Altogether,  there  is  a  most  satisfactory  quantity  of  bul- 
lying, banishing,  murdering,  taxing,  and  hanging,  through- 
out Europe.  I  perceive  by  your  silence  ''  —  Here  the 
emperor  stopped :  the  fact  was,  there  was  not  a  single 
person  left  in  the  Place  Vendome  ;  they  had  all  been  car- 
ried off  by  the  police  ! 


CRITICISMS   IN   LITERATURE   AND   ART. 


WILLIS'S    DASHES    AT    LIFE   WITH   A    FREE 
PENCIL. 

[Edinburgh  Review,  October,  1845.] 

Whatever  doubt  or  surprise  the  details  and  extracts  with 
which  we  are  about  to  amuse  our  readers  may  seem  to  attach 
to  the  fact,  we  beg  to  assure  those  of  them  who  do  not 
already  know  it,  that  Mr.  Willis  has  actually  written  some 
rather  clever  books,  occasionally  marked  by  traits  of  genius. 
But,  with  respect  to  the  present  publication,  we  confess  we 
have  been  frequently  at  a  loss  to  judge  whether  his  narra- 
tives were  intended  to  be  taken  as  serious,  or  only  jocular  — 
as  what  he  himself  believed  to  be  truths,  or  intended  only 
as  amusing  fancies.  True,  he  writes,  as  he  tells  us,  with  "  a 
free  pencil ;"  but  it  is  also  true  that  he  writes  as  if  he  wished 
his  readers  to  think  that  he  is  perfectly  in  earnest ;  that  he 
speaks  in  his  own  proper  person,  and  reveals  his  own  adven- 
tures, or  what  he  appears  to  wish  to  be  taken  as  such  ;  and 
we  therefore  feel  it  to  be  quite  fair  —  indeed  that  we  are 
bound  —  to  take  him  at  his  word,  and  to  deal  with  him 
accordingly. 

The  history  of  these  "  Dashes  at  Life,"  which  some  of  our 
contemporaries  have  much  extolled,  is  thus  modestly  given 
in  the  preface  :  —  "  Like  the  sculptor  who  made  toys  of  the 
'fragments  of  his  unsalable  Jupiter,'  the  author,  in  the 
following  collection  of  brief  tales,  gives  material,  that,  but 
for  a  single  objection,  would  have  been  moulded  into 
books  of  a  larger  design.  That  objection  is  the  unmarket- 
ableness  of  American  books  in  America,  owing  to  our  (Mr. 
Willis  is  an  American)  defective  law  of  copyright."  And 
he  proceeds  to  show,  with  pathetic  accuracy,  that  as  an 
American  publisher  can  get  all  English  books  for  nothing, 
he  will  not  throw  away  his  money  on  American  writers : 
hence  the  only  chance  of  a  livelihood  for  the  latter  is  to 

20 


WILLIS'S   DASHES   AT  LIFE.  21 

contribute  to  periodical  literature,  and  to  transport  works 
of  bulk  and  merit  to  the  English  market. 

So,  after  all,  if  a  few  authors  and  publishers  grumble  at 
piracy,  the  public  gains.  But  for  the  pirates  of  New  York 
and  Boston,  we  should  never  have  had  Mr.  Willis's  "Dashes." 
And  though  the  genius  which  might  have  perfected  the 
.lupiter  lias  been  thus  partly  balked,  though  ^Ir.  Willis  has 
l)een  forced  to  fritter  away  his  marble  and  intellect  in  a 
commerce  of  toys ;  still  the  fragmented  Jupiter  has,  with 
the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon,  found  an  appropriate  locality 
in  the  capital  of  the  world. 

But.  to  proceed  with  the  histor}',  we  may  state  that  it 
was  ^Ir.  Willis's  intention  to  work  up  some  of  these  sketches 
into  substantial  novels,  but  for  the  unsatisfactory  state  of 
the  market  for  that  commodity ;  and  there  can  be  no  sort  of 
doubt  that  the  genius  which  conceived  might  have  enlarged 
the  "Dashes'-  to  any  size.  In  the  first  half  of  these  vol- 
umes, there  are  some  twenty  tales  illustrative  of  English 
and  Continental  life — true  copies,  Mr.  Willis  states,  of 
what  he  has  seen  there  ;  and  most  of  them  of  so  strange  and 
diverting  a  nature,  that  a  man  of  genius  might  have  made 
many  scores  of  volumes  out  of  the  adventures  recorded  in 
only  a  few  hundreds  of  these  duodecimo  pages.  The 
Americans,  by  their  piratical  system,  have  robbed  them- 
selves of  that  pleasure;  and  the  Union  might  have  had  a 
novelist  as  proliiic  as  M.  Dumas  or  ]\Ir.  James,  had  it 
possessed  the  common  generosity  to  pay  him.  The  Euro- 
pean, as  contradistinguished  from  the  American  views  of 
societ}',  we  take  to  be  by  far  the  most  notable  of  the 
"Dashes."  The  judgment  of  foreigners  has  been  called, 
by  a  hap])y  blunder  of  logic,  that  of  contemporary  posterity. 
In  ^Ir.  Willis  we  have  "a  republican  visiting  a  monarchical 
country  for  the  first  time,  traversing  the  barrier  of  different 
ranks  with  a  stranger's  privilege,  and  curious  to  know  how 
nature's  nobilit}'  holds  its  own  against  nobility  by  inher- 
itance, and  how  heart  and  judgment  were  modified  in  their 
action  by  the  thin  air  at  the  summit  of  refinement."  That 
]Mr.  Willis,  in  his  exalted  sphere,  should  have  got  on  in  a 
manner  satisfactory  to  himself,  is  no  wonder.  Don  Chris- 
topher Sly  conducted  himself,  we  all  remember,  with  per- 
fect ease  in  the  Ducal  chair.  Another  personage  of  some- 
what humble  rank  in  life,  was,  as  we  also  know,  quite  at 
home  at  the  court  of  Queen  Titania,  and  inspired  her 
Majesty  with  a  remarkable  passion.     So,  also,  our  republi- 


22       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND    ART. 

can  stranger  appears  to  have  been  equally  at  his  ease,  when 
he  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  European  aristocratical 
society. 

The  great  characteristic  of  high  society  in  England,  Mr. 
Willis  assures  us,  is  admiration  of  literary  talent.  "  At  the 
summit  of  refinement, "  a  natural  nobleman,  or  a  j)opular 
writer  for  the  magazines,  is  in  all  respects  the  equal  of  a 
Duke.  As  some  captain  of  Free  Lances  of  former  days 
elbowed  his  way  through  royal  palaces,  with  the  eyes  of  all 
womankind  after  him  —  so,  in  the  present  time,  a  man,  by 
being  a  famous  "  Free  Pencil,"  may  achieve  a  similar  dis- 
tinction. Of  such  a  champion,  the  ladies  don't  say,  as  iu 
the  time  of  the  Free  Lances,  he  fought  at  Hennebon  or  Pavia, 
but  that  he  wrote  that  charming  poem  in  Colburn,  that 
famous  article  in  Blackwood.  Before  that  title  to  fame,  all 
aristocratic  heads  bow  down.  The  ladies  do  not  care  for 
rank,  or  marry  for  wealth,  they  only  worship  genius  ! 

This  truly  surprising  truth  forms  the  text  of  almost  every 
one  of  Mr.  Willis's  "Dashes  "  at  English  and  Continental  life. 
The  heroes  of  the  tales  are  all  more  or  less  alike  —  all  "  Free 
Pencils."  Sometimes  the  tales  are  related  in  the  first 
person,  as  befalling  our  American ;  sometimes  a  flimsy 
third  person  veils  the  author,  but  you  can't  but  see  that  it 
is  Caesar  who  is  writing  his  own  British  or  Gallic  victories, 
for  the  "  Free  Pencil "  always  conquers.  Duchesses  pine 
for  his  love  ;  modest  virgins  go  into  consumptions,  and  die 
for  him  ;  old  grandmothers  of  sixty  forget  their  families 
and  propriety,  and  fall  on  the  neck  of  this  "  Free  Pencil." 
If  this  be  true,  it  is  wonderful ;  if  it  is  fiction,  it  is  more 
Avonderful  still,  that  all  a  man's  delusions  should  take  this 
queer  turn, — that  Alnaschar  should  be  always  courting 
the  Vizier's  daughter  —  courting  !  What  do  we  say  ?  It  is 
the  woe-worn  creature  who  is  always  at  Alnaschar's  feet, 
and  he  (in  his  vision)  who  is  kicking  her. 

The  first  of  the  pictures  of  London  life  is  called  "  Leaves 
from  the  Heart-book  of  Ernest  Clay."  This,  but  for  the 
unfavorable  circumstances  before  alluded  to,  Avas  to  have 
been  a  novel  of  three  volumes ;  and  indeed  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  crowd  such  a  hero's  amours  into  a  few  chapters. 
Ernest  is  a  great  "Free  Pencil,"  with  whom  Jules  Janin 
himself  (that  famous  chieftain  of  the  French  "Free  Pen- 
cils," who  translated  Sterne,  confessing  that  he  did  not 
know  a  word  of  English,  and  "  did  "  his  own  wedding-day 
in  2ifeuilleton  of  the  Journal  des  Dehats)  can  scarcely  com- 


WILLIS'S  DASHES   AT  LIFE.  23 

pare.  The  "  Heart-book  "  opens  in  Ernest's  lodgings,  in  a 
second  floor  front,  No. — ,  South  Audley  Street,  Grosvenor 
Square,  where  Ernest  is  writing,  before  a  three-halfpenny 
inkstand,  an  article  for  the  next  new  monthly  magazine.  It 
was  two  o'clock,  and  the  author  was  at  breakfast,  —  and  to 
show  what  a  killing  man  of  the  world  poor  Ernest  was,  his 
biographer  tells  us  that  — 

"  On  the  top  of  a  small  leather  portmanteau,  near  by 
(the  three-halfpenny  inkstand,  the  like  of  which  you  may 
buy  '-in  most  small  shops  in  Soho"),  stood  two  pair  of  var- 
nished-leather boots  of  a  sumptuous  expensiveness,  slender, 
elegant,  and  without  spot,  except  the  leaf  of  a  crushed 
orange  blossom  clinging  to  one  of  the  heels.  The  boots  and 
the  inkstand  were  tolerable  exponents  of  his  (the  fashion- 
able author's)  two  opposite  but  closely  woven  existences." 

A  printer's  Devil  comes  to  him  for  his  Tale,  and  as  the 
man  of  genius  has  not  written  a  word  of  it,  he  begins  to 
indite  a  letter  to  the  publisher,  which  we  print  with  what 
took  place  subsequently ;  that  the  public  may  be  made 
acquainted  with  the  habits  of  "  Free  Pencils  "  in  compo- 
sition. 

[Here  follows  an  extract.] 

Both  the  carriages,  the  coroneted  cliariot  and  tlie  plain 
coach  "  out  of  Grosvenor  Square,"  contain  ladies  who  are 
wildly  in  love  witli  the  celebrated  writer  for  the  Magazines. 
He  is  smitten  by  the  chariot ;  he  has  oftered  marriage  to  the 
family  coach ;  which  of  the  two  vehicles  shall  carry  him 
off  ?  The  rival  owners  a[)i»ear  in  presence  (at  ]Mrs.  lioths- 
child's  ball !),  and  after  a  slight  contest  between  vice  and 
virtue,  the  well-principled  .young  man  of  genius  finishes 
the  evening  by  running  away  with  the  coronet  to  a  beauti- 
ful retreat  in  Devonshire,  leaving  his  bride-elect  to  wear 
the  willow.  This  may  be  considered  as  Volume  I.  of  the 
"Heart-book."  Who  would  not  be  interested  in  reading 
the  secrets  of  such  a  heart  —  who  would  not  pardon  its 
poetic  vagaries  ? 

In  Volume  11.  the  "  Free  Pencil,"  seeing  in  the  news- 
papers the  marriage  of  an  old  flame,  merely  in  joke  writes 
the  lady  a  letter  so  thrilling,  tender,  and  impassioned,  that 
she  awakens  for  the  first  time  to  a  sense  of  her  exquisite 
beauty,  and  becomes  a  coquette  forever  after.  The  "  Free 
Pencil "  meets  with  her  at  Naples ;  is  there  kissed  by  her 
in  public ;    crowned  by  her  hand,  and  proclaimed  by  her 


24        CniTICIi^MS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

beautiful  lips  the  prince  of  poets  ;  and  as  the  lady  is  mai 
riod,  he,  as  a  matter  of  ordinary  gallantry,  of  course  wishes 
to  push  his  advantages  further.  But  here  (and  almost  for  , 
the  only  time)  he  is  altogether  checked  in  his  advances, 
and  made  to  see  that  the  sovereign  power  of  beauty  is  even 
l)aramount  to  that  of  ''free  pencilling"  in  the  genteel  world. 
Hy  Avay  of  episode,  a  story  is  introduced  of  a  j^oung  woman 
who  dies  of  love  for  the  poet  (having  met  him  at  several 
halls  in  London).  He  consoles  her  by  marrying  her  on  her 
death-bed.  In  Volume  III.  the  "Free  Pencil"  recovers  his 
tirst  love,  whom  he  left  behind  in  the  shawl-room  at  Mrs. 
Rothschild's  ball,  and  who  has  been  pining  and  waiting  for 
him  ever  since.  The  constancy  of  the  beautiful  young  crea- 
ture is  rewarded,  and  she  becomes  the  wife  of  the  highly- 
gifted  young  man. 

Such  briefly  is  the  plot  of  a  tale,  purporting  to  be  drawn 
from  English  life  and  manners  ;  and  wondering  readers  may 
judge  how  like  the  portrait  is  to  the  original ;  how  faith- 
fully the  habits  of  our  society  are  here  depicted ;  how 
Magazine  writers  are  the  rulers  of  fashion  in  England  ; 
how  maids,  wives,  and  widows,  are  never  tired  of  running 
away  with  them.  But  who  can  appreciate  the  powers  of 
description  adorning  this  likely  story ;  or  the  high-toned 
benevolence  and  morality  with  which  the  author  invests 
his  hero  ?  These  points  can  only  be  judged  of  by  a  perusal 
of  the  book  itself.  Then,  indeed,  will  new  beauties  arise 
to  the  reader's  perception.  As,  in  St.  Peter's,  you  do  not 
at  first  appreciate  the  beautiful  details,  so  it  is  with  Mr. 
Willis's  masterpiece.  But  let  us,  for  present  recreation, 
make  one  or  two  brief  extracts  :  — 

A  lady  arriving  at  a  tea-party.  '^Quietly,  but  with  a 
step  as  elastic  as  the  nod  of  a  water-lily,  Lady  Mildred 
glided  into  the  room,  and  the  high  tones  and  unharmonized 
voices  of  the  different  groups  suddenly  ceased,  and  were 
succeeded  by  a  low  and  sustained  murmur  of  admiration. 
A  white  dress  of  faultless  freshness  of  fold ;  a  snowy 
turban,  from  which  hung  on  either  temple  a  cluster  of 
crimson  camelias  still  wet  with  the  night  dew ;  long  raven 
curls  of  undisturbed  grace  falling  on  shoulders  of  that 
indescribable  and  dewy  coolness  which  follows  a  morning 
bath  (!),  giving  the  skin  the  texture  and  the  opaque  white- 
ness of  the  lily ;  lips  and  skin  redolent  of  the  repose  and 
purity,  and  the  downcast  but  wakeful  eye  so  expressive  of 
recent  solitude,  and  so  peculiar  to  one  who  has  not  spoken 


WILLIE'S   DASHES  AT  LIFE.  25 

since  she  slept  —  these  were  attractions  which,  in  contrast 
with  the  paled  glories  around,  elevated  Lady  Mildred  at 
once  into  the  predominant  star  of  the  night." 

What  a  discovery  regarding  the  qualities  of  the  "  Morn- 
ing bath  "  —  how  naively  does  the  '•  nobleman  of  nature  *' 
recommend  the  use  of  that  rare  cosmetic  !  Here  follows 
a  description  of  the  triumphs  of  a  "  Free  Penciller.*' 

[Here  follows  the  extract.] 

We  shall  next  notice  a  wonderful  history  of  foreign  life, 
containing  the  development  of  a  most  wonderful  idiosyn- 
crasy. It  is  that  of  an  author  —  our  "  Free  Penciller  !  " 
His  life  is  but  a  sleeping  and  forgetting  —  the  new  soul 
that  rises  in  him  has  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  and  cometh 
again  from  afar.  He  has  not  only  a  Pythagorean  belief, 
but  sometimes  a  consciousness  of  his  previous  existence,  or 
existences — nay,  he  has  not  only  a  consciousness  of  having 
lived  formerly,  but  often  believes  that  he  is  living  some- 
where else,  as  well  as  at  the  place  where  at  the  present 
moment  he  may  be.  In  a  word,  he  is  often  conscious  of 
being  two  gentlemen  at  once  ;  —  a  miraculous  egarement  of 
the  intellect  described  in  tlu^  following  nmnner. 

[II(M-t'  follows  an  extract.] 

This  awakening  to  a  sense  of  previous  existence  is  thus 
further  detailed.  "  The  death  of  a  lady  in  a  foreign  land," 
says  ^Ir.  Willis,  "  leaves  me  at  liberty  to  narrate  the  cir- 
cumstances which  follow."  Death  has  unsealed  his  lips ; 
and  he  may  now  tell,  that  in  a  previous  state  of  existence 
he   was   in   love    with   the   beautiful   ^Margaret,    Baroness 

E ,  when  he  was  not  the  present  •'  Free  Penciller,"  but 

Rodolph  Isenberg,  a  young  artist  of  Vienna.  Travelling 
in  Styria,  Rodol])h  was  taken  to  a  soiree  at  Gratz,  in  the 
house  of  a  ^''  certain  lady  of  consequence  there,"  by  '^  a  very 
courteous  and  well-bred  person,  a  gentleman  of  Gratz," 
with  whom  ]Mr.  Willis  has  made  acquaintance  in  the 
coupe  of  a  diligence.  Xo  sooner  was  he  at  the  soii-ee 
than  he  found  himself  on  the  balcony  talking  to  "a  very 
quiet  young  lady,"  with  whom  he  "  discoursed  away  for 
half  an  hour  very  unreservedly,"  before  he  discovered  that 
a  third  person,  '•  a  tall  lady  of  very  stately  presence,  and 
with  the  remains  of  remarkable  beauty,"  was  earnestly  lis- 
tening to  their  conversation,  with  her  hand  upon  her  side, 


26       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

ill  an  attitude  of  repressed  emotion."  On  this  the  conver- 
sation ''  kxnguished ;  "  and  the  other  lady,  his  companion, 
rose,  and  took  his  arm  to  walk  through  the  rooms.  But  he 
had  not  escaped  the  notice  of  the  elder  lady. 

Sucli  are  the  pictures  of  European  society  which  this 
"  Free  Penciller "  has  sketched.  Of  the  truth  of  his  de- 
scriptions of  his  own  country  and  countrymen,  it  is  not  for 
us  to  speak.  AVe  shall  only  mention,  that,  in  characteriz- 
ing them,  he  remarks  that  they  are  much  more  French  than 
English  in  many  of  their  qualities.  "  They  are,"  says  he, 
''  in  dressing,  dancing,  congregating,  in  chivalry  to  women, 
facility  of  adaptation  to  new  circumstances,  elasticity  of 
recuperation  from  trouble  "  (a  most  delicious  expression  ! ), 
''in  complexion  and  figure,  very  French!"  Had  the 
"  Dashes  "  been  the  work  of  a  native  genius,  we  might 
have  hinted,  perhaps,  some  slight  occasional  objections, 
pointed  out  a  very  few  blunders,  questioned,  very  diffi- 
dently, the  great  modesty  of  some  statements,  and  the 
truth  and  accuracy  of  others.  But  as  the  case  stands,  we 
feel  that  we  are  bound  to  excuse  much  to  a  young  "  repub- 
lican visiting  a  monarchical  country  for  the  first  time." 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS.  27 


BAEMECIDE   BANQUETS,   WITH   JOSEPH 
BREGIOX   AND   AXNE   MILLER. 

{Fraser's  Mar/aziiie,  Xovember,  1845.] 

TxEORGE  SAVAGE  FITZ-BOODLE.  ESQUIKE,  TO  THE  REVEREND 
LIONEL  GASTER,  FELLOW  AND  TUTOR  OF  SAINT  BONIFACE 
COLLEGE,    OXON. 

Pall  Mall,  October  25,  1S45. 

3fi/  dear  Lionel.  —  There  is  a  comfort  to  think,  that 
however  other  works  and  masterpieces  bearing  my  humble 
name  have  been  received  by  the  public,  namely,  with  what 
I  cannot  but  think  (and  future  ages  will,  I  have  no  doubt, 
pronounce)  to  be  unmerited  obloquy  and  inattention,  the 
present  article,  at  least,  which  I  address  to  you  through  the 
public  prints,  will  be  read  by  every  one  of  the  numerous 
readers  of  this  ^Ligazine.  What  a  quantity  of  writings  by 
the  same  hand  have  you,  my  dear  friend,  pored  over  !  How 
much  delicate  wit,  profound  philosopliy  (lurking  hid  under 
harlequin's  black  mask  and  spangled  jacket,  nay,  under 
clown's  white  lead  and  grinning  vermilion),  —  how  many 
quiet  wells  of  deep  gushing  pathos,  have  you  failed  to  re- 
mark as  you  hurried  through  those  modest  pages,  for  which 
the  author  himself  here  makes  an  apology,  not  that  I  quarrel 
with  my  lot,  or  rebel  against  that  meanest  of  all  martyrdoms, 
indifference,  with  which  a  callous  age  has  visited  me  — 
not  that  I  complain  because  I  am  not  appreciated  by  the 
present  century  —  no,  no  I  —  he  who  lives  at  this  time 
ought  to  know  it  better  than  to  be  vexed  by  its  treatment 
of  him — he  who  pines  because  Smith  or  Snooks  doesn't 
appreciate  him,  has  a  poor  puny  vein  of  endurance,  and  pays 
those  two  personages  too  much  honor. 

Pardon,  dear  Lionel,  the  egotism  of  the  above  little  dis- 
quisition. If  (as  undoubtedly  is  the  case)  Fitz-Boodle  is  a 
grande  cime  incoiuiue,  a  genie  incom2:>ris,  you  cannot  say  that 
I  complain — I  don't  push  cries  of  distress  like  my  friend 
Sir  Lyttou  —  if  I  am  a  martyr,  who  ever  saw  me  out  of 
temper  ?  I  lie  smiling  on  my  rack  or  gridiron,  causing 
every  now  and  then  an  emotion  of  pity  in  the  bystanders  at 


28       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND    ART. 

my  angelic  good-humor.  I  bear  the  kicks  of  the  world  with 
smiling  meekness,  as  Napoleon  used  to  say  Talleyrand  could ; 
no  one  could  tell  from  the  jolly  and  contented  expression 
of  my  face  what  severe  agonies  were  felt  —  what  torturous 
indignities  were  inflicted  elsewhere. 

I  think  about  my  own  exceedingly  select  class  of  readers 
with  a  rueful  modesty,  when  I  recollect  how  much  more 
lucky  other  authors  are.  Here,  for  instance,  I  say  to  my- 
self, looking  upon  the  neat,  trim,  tight,  little,  handsome 
book,  signed  by  Joseph  Bregion  aud  Anne  Miller,  "Here 
is  a  book  whereof  the  public  will  infallibly  purchase  thou- 
sands. Maidens  and  matrons  will  read  and  understand  it. 
Smith  will  buy  it  and  present  it  to  his  lady ;  Snooks  will 
fully  enter  into  the  merit  of  it,  and  recommend  its  perusal 
to  his  housekeeper.  ISTor  will  it  be  merely  enjoyed  by  these 
worthy  humdrum  people,  but  men  of  learning  and  genius 
will  find  subject  of  interest  and  delectation  in  it.  I  dare 
say  it  will  find  a  place  in  bishops'  libraries,  or  on  the  book- 
shelves of  men  of  science,  or  on  the  tables  of  poets  and 
painters  ;  for  it  is  suited  to  the  dullest  and  the  highest 
intelligence."  And  where  is  the  fool  or  the  man  of  genius 
that  is  insensible  to  the  charms  of  a  good  dinner  ?  I 
myself  have  been  so  much  amused  and  instructed  by  the 
reading  of  the  "Practical  Cook  "  that  I  have  purchased,  out 
of  my  own  pocket,  several  copies  for  distribution  among  my 
friends.  Everybody  can  understand  it  and  get  benefit  by  it. 
You,  not  the  least  among  the  number,  my  reverend  and 
excellent  friend ;  for  though  your  mornings  are  passed  in 
the  study  of  the  heathen  classics,  or  over  your  favorite  tomes 
of  patristic  lore  —  though  of  forenoons  you  astonish  lecture- 
rooms  with  your  learning,  and  choose  to  awe  delighted 
undergraduates, — yet  I  know  that  an  hour  comes  daily 
when  the  sage  feels  that  he  is  a  man,  when  the  reverend 
expounder  of  Austin  and  Chrysostom  forsakes  his  study 
table  for  another,  which  is  spread  in  the  common-room, 
whereon,  by  the  cheerful  glimmer  of  wax-tapers,  your  eye 
rests  complacently  upon  crystal  flasks  mantling  with  the 
red  juices  of  France  and  Portugal,  and  glittering  silver 
dishes,  smoking  with  viands  prepared  by  your  excellent  col- 
lege cook. 

Do  you  remember  the  week  I  once  passed  at  Saint  Boniface 
College,  honored  to  be  your  guest  and  that  of  the  society  ? 
I  have  dined  in  many  countries  of  Europe  and  Asia  since 
then  —  I   have   feasted  with  aldermen,  and  made  one  at 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS.  29 

Soyer's  house-dinners  —  I  have  eaten  the  produce  of  Borel's 
larder,  and  drunk  Clos-Vougeot  at  the  '•  Trois  Freres  "  — 
I  have  discussed  the  wine  of  Capri,  and  know  the  difference 
of  the  flavor  of  the  oysters  of  Poldoodie  and  the  Lucrine 
Lake  —  I  have  examined  bouillabaisse  at  ^larseilles  and 
pilaff  at  Constantinople  —  I  have  consorted  with  epicures  of 
all  ages  and  nations,  — but  I  never  saw  men  who  relished  a 
dinner  better  than  the  learned  fellows  of  Saint  Boniface  ! 
How  Gaster  will  relish  this  book  !  I  thought  to  myself  a 
hundred  times  as  I  revelled  over  the  pages  of  Anne  Miller 
and  Joseph  Bregion. 

I  do  not  believe,  however,  that  those  personages,  namely, 
Bregion,  ''  formerly  cook  to  Prince  Rasumowski "  (I  knew 
his  Highness  intimately),  "to  Prince  Nicholas  Esterhazy, 
the  Russian  Ambassador  at  Paris,  etc.,  and  Anne  ^Miller, 
cook  in  several  English  families  of  distinction,"  are  the  real 
authors  of  this  excellent  and  truly  "  Practical  Cook."  A 
distinguished  amateur  of  cookery  and  almost  every  other 
science,  a  man  whose  erudition  is  as  varied  and  almost  as 
profound  as  your  own.  a  practical  philosopher,  who  has 
visited  every  capital  in  Europe,  their  victuals  noted  and 
their  wines  surveyed,  is,  I  have  reason  to  think,  the  real 
genius  under  whose  presiding  influence  Anne  and  Joseph 
have  labored.  For  instance,  of  the  Portuguese  and  Spanish 
dishes  here  described,  the  invaluable  collection  of  Turkish 
and  Indian  receipts,  the  Sicilian  and  Hungarian  receipts, 
it  is  not  probable  that  Joseph  or  Anne  should  have  had 
much  personal  experience ;  whereas  it  is  my  firm  opinion  that 
the  occult  editor  of  the ''  Practical  Cook  "  has  tasted  and  tested 
every  one  of  the  two  hundred  and  twenty-three  thousand 
edible  and  potable  formulte  contained  in  the  volume.  A 
great  genius,  he  has  a  great  appetite  and  digestion.  Such 
are  part  of  the  gifts  of  genius.  In  my  own  small  way,  and 
at  a  single  dinner  at  Brussels.  I  remember  counting  twenty- 
nine  dishes  of  which  I  partook.  By  such  a  process  alone, 
and  even  supposing  that  he  did  not  work  at  breakfast  or 
supper,  a  man  would  get  through  10,480  dishes  in  a  year, 
so  that  twenty  years'  perseverance  (and  oh  how  richly 
would  that  industry  be  repaid !)  would  carry  you  through 
the  whole  number  above  specified. 

Such  a  gormandizing  encyclopaedia  was  indeed  wanted, 
and  is  a  treasure  now  that  we  have  it  complete.  You  may 
feast  with  an}'  nation  in  the  world  as  you  turn  over  the 
pages  of  this  delightful  volume      In  default  of  substantial 


30       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

banquets  even  imaginary  ones  are  pleasant.  I  have  always 
relished  Alnaschar's  dinner,  off  lamb  and  pistachio-nuts, 
with  the  jolly  Barmecide,  and  could,  with  an  easy  and 
thankful  lieart,  say  grace  over  that  light  repast.  What  a 
fine,  manly,  wholesome  sense  of  roast  and  boiled,  so  to  speak, 
there  is  in  the  "  Iliad  "  !  In  my  mind  I  have  often  and  often 
cut  off  great  collops  of  the  smoking  beeves  under  Achilles' 
tent,  and  sat  down  to  a  jovial  scrambling  dinner  along  with 
Penelope's  suitors  at  Ithaca.  What  appetites  Ariosto's 
heroes  have,  and  the  reader  with  them  !  (Tasso's  Armida 
dinners  are  rather  theatrical  in  my  mind,  gilt  pasteboard  cups 
with  nothing  in  them,  wooden  pullets  and  pineapples,  and  so 
forth.)  In  Sir  A¥alter  Scott,  again,  there  reigns  a  genuine 
and  noble  feeling  for  victuals.  Witness  King  James's  cocka- 
leekie,  those  endless  admirable  repasts  in  "  Ivanhoe,"  espe- 
cially that  venison  pasty  in  "  Quentin  Durward,"  of  the  flavor 
of  which  I  have  the  most  distinct  notion,  and  to  which  I 
never  sit  down  without  appetite,  nor  quit  unsatisfied.  The 
very  thought  of  these  meals,  as  recalling  them  one  by  one, 
I  note  them  down,  creates  a  delightful  tickling  and  longing, 
and  makes  one  quite  hungry. 

For  these  spiritual  banquets  of  course  all  cookery-books 
are  good ;  but  this  of  the  so-called  Miller  and  Bregion  is 
unrivalled.  I  have  sent  you  a  copy  down  to  Oxford,  and 
would  beg  you,  my  dear  Lionel,  to  have  it  in  your  dressing- 
room.  If  you  have  been  taking  too  many  plovers'  eggs,  or 
foie  gras  patty,  for  breakfast,  if  you  feel  yourself  a  trifle 
heavy  or  incommoded  after  a  hot  luncheon,  you  naturally 
mount  your  cob,  take  a  gentle  breathing  for  a  couple  of 
hours  on  the  Blenheim  or  Bagley  road,  and  return  to  dress 
for  dinner  at  the  last  minute  ;  still  feeling  that  you  have  not 
got  your  appetite  quite  back,  and,  in  spite  of  the  exercise, 
that  you  are  not  altogether  up  to  the  good  things  of  the 
fellows'  table.  In  this  case  (which  may  often  occur),  take 
my  advice.  Instead  of  riding  for  two  hours,  curtail  your 
exercise,  and  only  trot  for  an  hour  and  forty  minutes. 
Spend  these  twenty  minutes  in  your  easy-chair  over  the 
"  Practical  Cook."  Begin  almost  at  any  page.  After  the 
first  few  paragraphs  the  languor  and  heaviness  begin  to  dis- 
appear. The  idea  of  dining,  which  was  quite  disagreeable 
to  you  half  an  hour  since,  begins  to  be  no  longer  repulsive  — 
a  new  interest  springs  up  in  your  breast  for  things  edible  — 
fancy  awakens  the  dormant  appetite,  which  the  coarse  rem- 
edy of  a  jolt  on  horseback  had  failed  to  rouse,  and,  as  the 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS.  31 

second  bell  rings,  you  hasten  down  to  Hall  with  eagerness, 
for  you  know  and  feel  that  you  are  hungry.  For  some  time 
I  had  the  book  by  my  bedside,  and  used  to  read  it  of  nights  ; 
but  this  is  most  dangerous.  Twice  I  was  obliged  to  get  up 
and  dress  myself  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  go  out 
to  hunt  for  some  supper. 

As  you  begin  at  the  preface  of  the  book  it  charms  you 
with  its  philosophical  tone. 

"  Far  are  wo  from  saying  that  a  dinner  shoukl  not  be  a  subject  of 
morning  or  mid-day  meditation  or  of  luxurious  desiie;  but  in  the 
present  advanced  state  of  civilization,  and  of  medical  and  chemical 
knowledge,  something  more  than  kneailing,  baking,  stewing,  and 
boiling  are  necessary  in  any  nation  pretentling  to  civilization.  The 
metropolis  of  England  exceeds  Paris  in  extent  and  population:  it 
commands  a  greater  supply  of  all  articles  of  consumption,  ami  con- 
tains a  greater  number  and  variety  of  markets,  which  are  better 
supplied.  We  greatly  surpass  the  French  in  mutton,  we  produce 
better  beef,  lamb,  and  pork,  and  are  immeasurably  superior  both  in 
the  quantity  ami  (luality  of  oiu*  tish,  our  venison,  ami  our  game,  yet 
we  cannot  compare,  as  a  nation,  with  the  higher,  the  middle,  or  the 
lower  classes  in  France,  in  the  science  of  preparing  our  daily  food. 
The  only  articles  of  food  in  the  quality  of  which  the  French  surpass 
us  are  veal  and  fowl,  but  such  is  the  skill  and  science  of  their  cooks, 
that  with  worse  mutton,  worse  beef,  and  worse  lamb  than  ouis,  they 
produce  better  choiis,  cutlets,  steaks,  and  better  made  dishes  of  every 
nature  and  kind  whatsoever.  Infricassees,  ragouts,  ,salmis,  quenelles, 
purees,  filets,  and  more  especially  in  the  dressing  of  vegetables,  our 
neigiibors  surpass  us,  and  we  see  no  good  reason  why  we  should  not 
imitate  them  in  a  matter  in  which  tliey  are  so  perfect,  or  why  their 
more  luxurious,  more  varied,  more  palatable,  and  more  dainty  cookery, 
should  not  be  introduced  among  the  higher  and  middle  classes  to 
more  general  notice." 

No  Joseph  Bregion,  though  Rasumowski's  chef;  no 
Anne  ]Miller,  though  cook  to  ever  so  many  English  fami- 
lies of  distinction,  could  write  like  this.  Xo,  no.  This 
is  not  merely  a  practical  cook,  but  a  practical  philosopher, 
whose  pen  we  think  we  recognize,  and  who  wishes  to  recon- 
cile ourselves  and  our  Gallic  neighbors  by  the  noble  means 
of  a  good  dinner.  There  is  no  blinking  the  matter  here ; 
no  foolish  vainglory  and  vaporing  contempt  of  French- 
men, such  as  some  Britons  are  wont  to  indulge  in,  such  as 
all  Frenchmen  endeavor  to  make  pass  for  real.  Scotland, 
they  say,  is  the  best  cultivated  country  of  Europe ;  and 
why  ?  —  because  it  is  the  most  barren.  Your  Neapolitan 
peasant  lolls  in  the  sunshine  all  day,  leaving  his  acres  to 
produce  spontaneous  melons  and  volunteer  grapes,  with 
which    the    lazy   farmer   nourishes    himself.     Your   canny 


32     cnrncisMS  in  literature  and  art. 

Scot  invents  manures,  rotatory  crops,  subsoil  ploughs,  tile- 
drains,  and  other  laborious  wonders  of  agriculture,  with 
M'hich  he  forces  reluctant  Nature  to  be  bountiful  to  him. 
And  as  with  the  fruits  of  the  field,  so  it  is  with  the  beasts 
thereof;  because  we  have  fine  mutton  to  our  hand,  we 
neglect  cookery.  The  French,  who  have  worse  mutton, 
worse  beef,  and  luorse  lamb  than  ours,  loroduce  better  choj^s, 
cutlets,  and  steaks.  This  sentence  should  be  painted  up  as 
a  motto  in  all  our  kitchens.  Let  cooks  blush  when  they 
road  it.  Let  housekeepers  meditate  upon  it.  I  am  not 
writing  in  a  burlesque  or  bantering  strain.  Let  this  truth 
be  brought  home  to  the  bosoms  of  English  kitchens,  and 
the  greatest  good  may  be  done. 

The  grand  and  broad  principles  of  cookery  or  cookies 
thus  settled,  the  authors  begin  to  dissert  upon  the  various 
branches  of  the  noble  science,  regarding  all  of  which  they 
have  to  say  something  new,  or  pleasant,  or  noble.  Just 
read  the  heads  of  the  chapters,  —  what  a  pleasant  smack  and 
gusto  they  have  !  — 

Rules  necessary  to  be  observed  by  Cooks  in  the  Regula- 
tion AND  Management  of  their  Larder. 

Observations  as  to  Undressed  Meats. 

Observations  on  the  Kitchen  and  its  Utensils. 

Observations  on  and  Directions  for  Carving. 

General  Observations  on  English  Soups  and  Broths,  and 
Directions  concerning  them. 

Observations  on  Meat  in  General. 

The  mere  titles  themselves  are  provocative  of  pleasant 
thoughts  and  savory  meditations.  I  seize  on  them.  I  sniff 
them  spiritually.  I  eye  them  (with  the  eyes  of  the 
imagination)  yearningly.  I  have  seen  little  penniless  boys 
eying  meat  and  puddings  in  cookshops  so  —  no  pleasant 
occupation  perhaps  to  the  hungry  —  but  good  and  whole- 
some for  such  as  have  dined  to-day  and  can  afford  to  do  so 
to-morrow.  Even  after  dinner,  T  say  this  book  is  pleasant 
to  read  and  think  over.  I  hate  the  graceless  wretch  who 
begins  to  be  disgusted  with  eating  so  soon  as  his  own 
appetite  is  satisfied.  Your  truly  hospitable  man  loves  to 
see  others  eating  happily  around  him,  though  satiety  has 
caused  him  to  lay  down  his  own  knife  and  fork ;  the 
spectacle  of  a  hungry  fellow-creature's  enjoyment  gives  a 
benevolent  gormandizer  pleasure.  I  am  writing  this  very 
line  after  an  excellent  repast  of   three   courses ;   and  yet 


BAllMECIDE  BANQUETS.  33 

this  mere  account  of  an  English  dinner  awakens  in  me  an 
active  interest  and  a  manly  and  generous  sympathy. 

*' On  laybvj  out  a  table. — The  manner  of  laying  out  a  table  is 
nearly  the  same  in  all  parts  of  the  United  Kingdom:  yet  there  are 
trifling  local  peculiarities  to  which  the  mistress  of  a  house  must  at- 
tend. A  centre  ornament,  whether  it  be  a  dormant,  a  lAateau,  an 
eperf/ne,  or  a  candelabra,  is  found  so  convenient,  and  contributes  so 
much  to  the  good  appearance  of  the  table,  that  a  fashionable  dinner 
is  now  seldom  or  never  set  out  without  something  of  this  kind. 

'*  Utility  should  be  the  true  principle  of  beauty,  at  least  in  affairs 
of  the  table,  and.  above  all,  in  the  substantial  first  course.  Avery 
false  taste  is,  however,  often  shown  in  centie  ornaments.  Strange 
ill-assorted  nosegays  and  bouquets  of  artificial  flowers  begin  to  droop 
or  look  faded  among  hot  steams.  Ornamental  articles  of  family 
plate,  carved,  chased,  or  merely  plain,  can  never  be  out  of  place, 
however  old-fashioned.  In  desserts,  richly-cut  glass  is  ornamental. 
We  are  far,  also,  from  proscribing  the  foliage  and  moss  in  which 
fruits  are  sometimes  seen  bedded.  The  sparkHng  imitation  of  frost- 
work, which  is  given  to  preserved  fruits  ami  other  things,  is  also  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful;  as  are  many  of  the  trifles  belonging  to  French 
and  Italian  confectionery. 

"  Beautifully  white  damask,  and  a  green  cloth  underneath,  are  in- 
dispensable. 

"In  all  ranks,  and  in  every  family,  one  important  art  in  house- 
keeping is  to  make  what  remains  from  one  day's  entertainment  con- 
tribute to  the  elegance  or  plenty  of  the  next  day's  dinner.  This  is  a 
principle  understood  by  persons  in  the  very  highest  ranks  of  society, 
who  maintain  the  most  splendid  and  expensive  establishments. 
Vegetables,  ragouts,  and  soups  may  be  re-warmed;  and  jellies  and 
blancmange  remouldi'd.  with  no  deterioration  of  tlieir  qualities. 
Savory  or  sweet  patties,  crociuels.  rissoles,  vol-an-vents,  fritters,  tart- 
lets, etc.,  may  be  served  witli  almost  no  cost,  where  cookery  is  going 
forward  on  a  large  scale.  In  the  French  kitchen,  a  numerous  class  of 
culinary  preparations,  called  entrees  de  dessert,  or  made-dishes  of  left 
things,  are  served  even  at  grand  entertainments. 

"  At  dinners  of  any  pretension,  the  First  Course  consists  of  soups 
and  fish,  removed  by  boiled  poultry,  ham,  or  tongue,  roasts,  stews, 
etc.;  and  of  vegetables,  with  a  few'made-dishes,  as  ragouts,  curries, 
hashes,  cutlets.^patties,  fricandeaux,  etc.,  in  as  great  variety  as  the 
number  of  dishes  permits.  For  the  Second  Course,  roasted  poultry  or 
game  at  the  top  and  bottom,  with  dressed  vegetables,  omelets,  maca- 
roni, jellies,  creams,  salads,  preserved  fruit,  and  all  sorts  of  sweet 
things  and  pastry,  are  employed  —  endeavoring  to  give  an  article  of 
each  sort,  as  a  jelly  and  a  cream,  as  will  be  exemplified  in  bills  of  fare 
which  follow.  This  is  a  more  common  arrangement  than  three 
courses,  which  are  attended  with  so  much  additional  trouble  both  to 
the  guests  and  servants. 

""whether  the  dinner  be  of  two  or  three  courses,  it  is  managed 
nearly  in  the  same  way.  Two  dishes  of  fish  dressed  in  different  ways 
—  if  suitable  —  should  occupy  the  top  and  bottom;  and  two  soups,  a 
white  and  a  brown,  or  a  mild  and  a  high-seasoned,  are  best  disposed 
on  each  side  of  the  centre-piece;  the  fish-sauces  are  placed  between 
the  centre-piece  and  the  dish  of  fish  to  which  each  is  appropriate;  and 


34       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

this,  with  tlie  decanted  wines  drunlc  during  dinner,  forms  tlie  first 
course.  When  there  are  rare  Frencli  or  Khenish  wines,  they  are 
placed  in  tlie  original  bottles,  in  ornamented  wine-vases,  between  the 
centre-piece  and  the  top  and  bottom  dishes;  or  if  four  liinds,  they  are 
ranged  round  tlie  plateau.  If  one  bottle,  it  is  placed  in  a  vase  in  the 
centre. 

"The  Second  Course  at  a  purely  English  dinner,  when  there  are 
three,  consists  of  roasts  and  stews  for  the  top  and  bottom;  turkey  or 
fowls,  or  frieandeau.  or  ham  garnished,  or  tongue  for  the  sides;  with 
small  made  dishes  for  the  corners,  served  in  covered  dishes;  asimlates, 
currie  of  any  kind,  ragout  ov  fricassee  of  rabbits,  stewed  mushrooms, 

''The  Third  Course  consists  of  game,  confectionery,  the  more 
delicate  vegetables  dressed  in  the  French  way,  puddings,  creams, 
jellies,  etc. 

"  Caraffes,  with  the  tumblers  belonging  to  and  placed  over  them,  are 
laid  at  proper  intervals.  Where  hock,  champagne,  etc.  etc.  are  served, 
they  are  handed  round  between  the  courses.  When  the  third  course 
is  cleared  away,  cheese,  butter,  a  fresh  salad,  or  sliced  cucumber,  are 
usually  served;  and  the  finger-glasses  precede  the  dessert.  At  many 
tables,  particularly  in  Indian  houses,  it  is  customary  merely  to  hand 
quickly  round  a  glass  vessel  or  two  filled  with  simple,  or  simply  per- 
fumed tepid  water,  made  by  the  addition  of  a  little  rose  or  lavender 
water,  or  a  home-made  strained  infusion  of  rose-leaves  or  lavender 
spikes.  Into  this  water  each  guest  may  dip  the  corner  of  his  napkin, 
and  with  this  refresh  his  lips  and  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"  The  Dessert,  at  an  English  table,  may  consist  merely  of  two 
dishes  of  fine  fruit  for  the  top  and  bottom;  common  or  dried  fruits, 
filberts,  etc.,  for  the  corners  or  sides,  and  a  cake  for  the  middle,  with 
ice-pails  in  hot  weather.  Liqueurs  are  at  this  stage  handed  round ;  and 
the  wines  usually  drunk  after  dinner  are  placed  decanted  on  the  table 
along  with  the  dessert.  The  ice-pails  and  plates  are  removed  as  soon 
as  the  company  finish  their  ice.  This  may  be  better  understood  by 
following  the  exact  arrangement  of  what  is  considered  a  fashionable 
dinner  of  three  courses  and  a  dessert." 

]^^o^v  what  can  be  finer  than  this  description  of  a  feed  ? 
How  it  recalls  old  days  and  old  dinners,  and  makes  one 
long  for  the  return  of  friends  to  London  and  the  opening 
of  the  dining  campaign  !  It  is  not  far  removed,  praised  be 
luck.  Already  the  lawyers  are  coming  back  (and,  let  me 
tell  you,  some  of  the  judges  give  uncommonly  good  din- 
ners), railroad  speculations  are  bringing  or  keeping  a  good 
number  of  men  of  fortune  about  town  :  presently  we  shall 
have  Parliament,  the  chief  good  of  which  institution  is,  as 
I  take  it,  that  it  collects  in  London  respectable  wealthy 
dinner-giving  families ;  and  then  the  glorious  operations 
will  commence  again ;  and  I  hope  that  you,  dear  Lionel  (on 
your  occasional  visits  to  London),  and  your  humble  servant 
and  every  good  epicure  will,  six  times  at  least  in  every 
week,  realize  that  delightful  imaginary  banquet  here  laid 
out  in  type. 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS.  35 

But  I  wish  to  offer  a  few  words  of  respectful  remon- 
strance and  approving  observation  regarding  the  opinions 
delivered  above.  The  description  of  the  dinner,  as  it 
actually  exists,  we  will  pass  over;  but  it  is  of  dinners  as 
they  should  be  that  I  would  sj^eak.  Some  statements  in 
the  Bregion-Miller  account  I  would  question  ;  of  others  I 
deplore  that  they  should  be  true. 

In  the  hrst  place  —  as  to  central  ornaments  —  have  them, 
as  handsome,  as  massive  as  you  like  —  but  be  hanged  to 
flowers !  I  say ;  and,  above  all,  no  candelabra  on  the  table 
—  no  cross-lights;  faces  are  not  seen  in  the  midst  of  the 
abominable  cross-lights,  and  you  don't  know  who  is  across 
the  table.  Have  your  lights  rich  and  brilliant  overhead, 
blazing  on  the  sideboard,  and  gleaming  hospitably  from  as 
many  sconces  as  you  please  along  the  walls,  but  no  lights 
on  the  tables.  '•  Koses,  bouquets,  moss,  and  foliage,"  I 
liave  an  utter  contempt  for  as  quite  foolish  ornaments,  that 
have  no  right  to  appear  in  atmospheres  composed  of  the 
fumes  of  ham,  gravy,  sou}i,  game,  lobster-sauce,  etc.  Away 
with  all  poetastering  at  dinner-parties.  Though  your 
friends  Plato  and  Socrates  crowned  themselves  with  gar- 
lands at  dinner,  I  have  always  fancied  Socrates  an  ass  for 
his  pains.  Fancy  old  Xoddly,  of  your  college,  or  your  own 
venerable  mug  or  mine,  set  oft'  with  a  wreath  of  tulips  or 
a  garland  of  roses,  as  we  ladled  down  the  turtle-soup  in 
your  hall  I  The  thought  is  ridiculous  and  odious.  Flowers 
were  not  made  to  eat  —  away  with  them!  I  doubt  even 
whether  young  unmarried  ladies  should  be  allowed  to  come 
down  to  dinner.  Thp.y  are  a  sort  of  flowers  — pretty  little 
sentimental  gewgaws  —  what  can  they  know  about  eating  ? 
The}'  should  only  be  brought  down  for  balls,  and  should 
dine  upon  roast  mutton  in  the  nursery. 

"  Beautiful  white  damask  and  a  green  cloth  are  indis- 
pensable." Ah,  my  dear  Lionel,  on  this  head  I  exclaim, 
let  me  see  the  old  mahogany  back  again,  with  the  crystal, 
and  the  wine  quivering  and  gleaming  in  it.  I  am  sorry  for 
the  day  when  the  odious  fashion  of  leaving  the  cloth  down 
was  brought  from  across  the  water.  They  leave  the  cloth 
on  a  French  table  because  it  is  necessary  to  disguise  it ;  it 
is  often  a  mere  set  of  planks  on  trestles,  the  meanness  of 
which  they  disguise  as  they  disguise  the  poverty  of  their 
meat.  Let  us  see  the  naked  mahogany ;  it  means,  I  think, 
not  only  a  good  dinner,  but  a  r/ood  drink  after  dinner.  In 
houses  where  they  leave  the  cloth  down  you  know  they  are 


36        CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

going  to  shirk  their  wine.  And  what  is  a  dinner  without  a 
subsequent  drink  ?  A  mockery  —  an  incomplete  enjoyment 
at  least.  Do  you  and  I  go  out  to  dine  that  we  may  have 
the  pleasure  oi'  drinking  tea  in  the  drawing-room,  and  hear- 
ing Miss  Anne  or  Miss  Jane  sing  ?  Fiddlededee  !  I  can 
get  the  best  singing  in  the  world  for  half  a  guinea !  Do  we 
expend  money  in  cabs,  kid  gloves,  and  awful  waistcoats,  in 
order  to  get  muffins  and  tea  ?  Bah  !  Nay,  does  any  man 
of  sense  declare  honestly  that  he  likes  ladies'  conversation  ? 
I  have  read  in  novels  that  it  was  pleasant,  the  refinement 
of  woman's  society  —  the  delightful  influence  of  a  female 
presence,  and  so  forth ;  but  say  now,  as  a  man  of  the  world 
and  an  honest  fellow,  did  you  ever  get  any  good  out  of 
women's  talk  ?  What  a  bore  a  clever  woman  is  !  —  what  a 
frightful  bore  a  mediocre  respectable  woman  is  !  And  every 
woman  who  is  worth  anything  will  confess  as  much.  There 
is  no  woman  but  one  after  all.  But  mum !  I  am  getting 
away  from  the  dinner-table ;  they  it  was  who  dragged  me 
from  it,  and  it  was  for  parsimony's  sake,  and  to  pleasure 
them,  that  the  practice  of  leaving  on  the  cloth  for  dessert 
was  invented. 

This  I  honestly  say  as  a  diner-out  in  the  world.  If  I  ac- 
cept an  invitation  to  a  house  where  the  dessert-cloth  prac- 
tice is  maintained  (it  must  be,  I  fear,  in  large  dinners  of 
apparat  now,  but  I  mean  in  common  reunions  of  ten  or 
fourteen)  —  if  I  accept  a  dessert-cloth  invitation,  and  a 
mahogany  invitation  subsequently  comes,  I  fling  over  des- 
sert-cloth. To  ask  you  to  a  dinner  without  a  drink  is  to 
ask  you  to  half  a  dinner. 

This  I  say  in  the  interest  of  every  diner-out.  An  un- 
guarded passage  in  the  above  description,  too,  might  give 
rise  to  a  fatal  error,  and  be  taken  advantage  of  by  stingy 
curmudgeons  who  are  anxious  for  any  opportunity  of  sav- 
ing their  money  and  liquor,  —  I  mean  those  culpably  care- 
less words,  "  Where  hock,  champagne,  etc.,  etc.,  are  served, 
they  are  handed  round  between  the  coiirses.^^  Of  course  they 
are  handed  round  between  the  courses ;  but  they  are  handed 
round  during  the  courses  too.  A  man  who  sets  yow  down 
to  a  driblet  of  champagne  —  who  gives  you  a  couple  of  beg- 
garly glasses  between  the  courses,  and  winks  to  John  who 
froths  up  the  liquor  in  your  glass,  and  screws  up  the  re- 
mainder of  the  bottle  for  his  master's  next  day's  drinking, 
—  such  a  man  is  an  impostor  and  despicable  snob.  This 
fellow  must  not  be  allowed  an  excuse  for  his  practice  —  the 


BARMECIDE   BAXQUETS.  37 

wretch  must  not  be  permitted  to  point  to  Joseph  Bregion 
and  Anne  ^liller  for  an  authority,  and  say  the}-  declare  that 
champagne  is  to  be  served  only  between  the  courses.  Xo  ! 
— no  !  you  poor  lily-livered  wretch  !  If  money  is  an  object 
to  you,  drink  water  (as  we  have  all  done,  perhaps,  in  an 
august  state  of  domestic  circumstances,  with  a  good  heart) ; 
but  if  there  is  to  be  champagne,  have  no  stint  of  it  in  the 
name  of  Bacchus  !  Profusion  is  the  charm  of  hospitality ; 
have  plenty,  if  it  be  only  beer.  A  man  who  offers  cham- 
l)agne  by  driblets  is  a  fellow  who  would  wear  a  pinchbeck 
breastpin,  or  screw  on  spurs  to  his  boots  to  make  believe 
that  he  kept  a  horse.  I  have  no  words  of  scorn  sufficiently 
strong  to  characterize  the  puny  coward,  shivering  on  the 
brink  of  hospitality,  without  nerve  to  plunge  into  the 
generous  stream  ! 

Another  word  should  be  said  to  men  of  moderate  means 
about  that  same  champagne.  It  is  actually  one  of  the 
cheapest  of  wines,  and  there  is  no  wine,  out  of  which,  to 
speak  commercially,  you  get  your  returns  so  directly.  The 
popping,  and  fizzing,  and  agreeable  nervous  hurry  in  pour- 
ing and  drinking,  give  it  a  prestige  and  an  extra  impor- 
tance—  it  makes  twice  the  appearance,  has  twice  the  effect, 
and  doesn't  cost  you  more  than  a  bottle  of  your  steady,  old, 
brown  sherry,  which  has  gathered  on  its  head  the  interest 
of  accumulated  years  in  your  cellar.  When  people  have 
had  plenty  of  champagne  they  fancy  they  have  been  treated 
liberally.  If  3'ou  wish  to  save,  save  upon  your  hocks, 
Sauternes,  and  Moselles,  which  count  for  nothing,  but  dis- 
appear down  careless  throats  like  so  much  toast  and  water. 

I  have  made  this  remark  about  champagne.  All  men  of 
the  world  say  they  don't  care  for  it ;  all  gourmands  swear 
and  vow  that  they  prefer  Sillery  a  thousand  times  to 
sparkling,  but  look  round  the  table  and  behold !  AVe  all 
somehow  drink  it.  All  who  say  they  like  the  Sillery  will 
be  found  drinking  the  sparkling.  Yes,  beloved  sparkler, 
you  are  an  artificial,  barley-sugared,  brandied  beverage,  ac- 
cording to  the  dicta  of  connoisseurs.  You  are  universally 
sneered  at,  and  said  to  have  no  good  in  you.  But  console 
yourself,  you  are  universally  drunken  —  3'ou  are  the  wine 
of  the  world, — you  are  the  liquor  in  whose  bubbles  lies 
the  greatest  amount  of  the  sparkle  of  good  spirits.  May  I 
[lie  but  I  v\'ill  not  be  ashamed  to  proclaim  my  love  for  you ! 
You  have  given  me  much  pleasure,  and  never  any  pain  — 
you  have  stood  by  me  in  many  hard  moments,  and  cheered 


38        CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

mc  in  many  dull  ones — you  have  whipped  up  many  flag- 
ging thoughts,  and  dissipated  many  that  were  gloomy  — 
you  have  made  me  hope,  ay,  and  forget.  Ought  a  man  to 
disown  such  a  friend  ? 

Incomparably  the  best  champagne  I  know  is  to  be  found 
in  Eu gland.  It  is  the  most  doctored,  the  most  brandied, 
the  most  barley-sugared,  the  most  winy  wine  in  the  world. 
As  such  let  us  hail,  and  honor,  and  love  it. 

Tliose  precious  words  about  rechauffes  and  the  art  of 
inaking  the  remains  of  one  day's  entertainment  contribute 
to  the  elegance  and  plenty  of  the  next  day's  dinner,  cannot 
be  too  fondly  pondered  over  by  housekeepers,  or  too  often 
brought  into  practice.  What  is  it,  ladies,  that  so  often 
drives  out  men  to  clubs,  and  leaves  the  domestic  hearth 
desolate  —  what  but  bad  dinners  ?  And  whose  fault  is  the 
bad  dinners  but  yours  —  yours,  forsooth,  who  are  too  intel- 
lectual to  go  into  the  kitchen,  and  too  delicate  to  think 
about  your  husband's  victuals  ?  I  know  a  case  in  which 
the  misery  of  a  whole  life,  nay,  of  a  whole  series  of  little 
and  big  lives,  arose  from  a  wife's  high  and  mighty  neglect 
of  the  good  things  of  life,  where  ennui,  estrangement,  and 
subsequent  ruin  and  suicide,  arose  out  of  an  obstinate  prac- 
tice of  serving  a  leg  of  mutton  three  days  running  in  a  small 
respectable  family. 

My  friend,  whom  I  shall  call  IVEortimer  Delamere  (for 
why  not  give  the  unfortunate  fellow  as  neat  and  as  elegant 
a  name  as  possible,  as  I  am  obliged  to  keep  his  own  back 
out  of  regard  to  his  family  ?)  —  Mortimer  Delamere  was  an 
ornament  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  married  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five. 

Before  marriage  he  had  a  comfortable  cottage  at  Sutton, 
whither  he  used  to  drive  after  business  hours,  and  where 
you  had  roast  ducks,  toasted  cheese,  steaks  and  onions, 
wonderful  bottled  stout  and  old  port,  and  other  of  those 
savory  but  somewhat  coarse  luxuries  with  which  home- 
keeping  bachelors  sometimes  recreate  their  palates.  He 
married  and  quitted  his  friends  and  his  little  hospitalities, 
his  punch  and  his  cigars,  for  a  genteel  wife  and  house  in 
the  Regent's  Park,  where  I  once  had  the  misfortune  to  take 
pot-luck  with  him. 

That  dinner,  which  I  never  repeated,  showed  me  at  once 
that  Delamere's  happiness  was  a  wreck.  He  had  cold  mut- 
ton and  mouldy  potatoes.  His  genteel  wife,  when  he 
humbly  said  that  he  should   have   preferred  the  mutton 


BARMECIDE  BANQUETS.  39 

hashed,  answered  superciliously  that  the  kitchen  was  not 
her  province,  that  as  long  as  there  was  food  sufficient  she 
did  not  heed  its  quality.  She  talked  about  poetry  and  the 
Reverend  Kobert  Montgomery  all  the  evening,  and  about  a 
quarter  of  an  liour  after  she  had  left  us  to  ourselves  and 
the  dessert,  summoned  us  to  exceedingly  weak  and  muddy 
coffee  in  the  drawing-room,  where  she  subsequently  enter- 
tained us  with  bad  music,  sung  with  her  own  cracked,  false, 
genteel  voice.  My  usual  politeness  and  powers  of  conver- 
sation did  not  of  course  desert  me  even  under  this  afflic- 
tion ;  and  she  was  pleased  to  say  at  the  close  of  the 
entertainment  that  she  had  enjoyed  a  highly  intellectual 
evening,  and  hoped  Mr.  Fitz-Boodle  would  rei)eat  his  visit. 
Mr.  Fitz-Boodle  would  have  seen  her  at  Jericho  first. 

But  what  was  the  consequence  of  a  life  of  this  sort? 
Where  the  mutton  is  habitually  cold  in  a  house,  depend  on 
it  the  affection  grows  cold,  too.  Delamere  could  not  bear 
that  comfortless,  flavorless,  frigid  existence.  He  took 
refuge  in  the  warmth  of  a  club.  He  frequented  not  onl}- 
the  library  and  coffee-room,  but.  alas!  the  smoking-room 
and  card-room.  He  became  a  vircur  and  jolly  dog  about 
town,  neglecting  the  wife  who  had  neglected  him,  and  who 
is  now  separated  from  him.  and  proclaime<l  to  be  a  martyr 
by  her  genteel  family,  whereas,  in  fact,  her  own  selfishness 
was  the  cause  of  his  falling  away.  Had  she  but  conde- 
scended to  hash  his  mutton  and  give  him  a  decent  dinner, 
the  poor  fellow  would  have  been  at  home  to  this  day; 
would  never  have  gone  to  the  club  or  played  with  Mr. 
Denman,  who  won  his  money ;  would  never  have  been 
fascinated  by  Senhora  Dolora,  who  caused  his  duel  with 
Captain  Tufto ;  would  never  have  been  obliged  to  fly  to 
America  after  issuing  bills  which  he  could  not  take  up  — 
bills,  alas!  with  somebody  else's  name  written  on  them. 

I  venture  to  say  that  if  the  "Practical  Cook"'  had  been 
published,  and  '^trs.  Delamere  had  condescended  to  peruse 
it ;  if  she  had  read  pages  30-32,  for  instance,  with  such 
simple  receipts  as  these  :  — 

BILLS  OF  FARE  FOR  PLAIX  FAMILY  DINNERS. 

Dinners  of  Five  Dishes. 

Peas  or  Mulligatawny  Soup. 
Potatoes  browned        Apple  Dumpling,  Mashed  Turnips 

below  the  Eoast.         or  Plain  Fritters.  or  Pickles. 

Roast  Shoulder  of  Mutton. 


40       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

Haddocks  boiled,  with  Parsley  and  Butter  Sauce. 
Potatoes.  Newmarket  Pudding.  Rice  or 

Haricot,  Currie,  Hash,  or  Grill,  Pickles. 

of  the  Mutton  of  the  former  day. 


Knuckle  of  Veal  Piagout,  or  with  Rice. 

Stewed  Endive.  A  Charlotte.  Potatoes. 

Roast  of  Pork,  or  Pork  Chops  — ^Sar/e  Sauce,  or  Sauce  Piquante. 


Boiled  Cod,  with  Oyster,  Egg,  or  Dutch  Sauce. 
Potatoes.  Mutton  Broth.  Carrots  or 

Scrag  of  Mutton,  with  Turnips. 

Caper  Sauc^e,  or  Parsley  and  Butter. 


Cod  Currie,  or  a  Bechamel,  of  the  Fish  of  former  day. 

Scalloped  Oysters.         Rice  Pudding.  Mashed  Potatoes. 

Roast  Ribs  of  Beef. 


Bouilli,  garnished  with  Onions. 

Beef  Cecils,  of  the 
Marrow  Bones.    Soup  of  the  Bouilli.  Roast  Ribs  of  the 

former  day. 
Lamb  Chops,  with  Potatoes. 
Vegetables  on  the  Side  Table. 

she  would  have  had  her  husband  at  home  every  dsij.  As 
I  read  them  over  myself,  dwelling  upon  each,  I  say  in- 
wardly, "  Could  I  find  a  wife  who  did  not  sing,  and  who 
would  daily  turn  me  out  such  dinners  as  these,  Fitz-Boodle 
himself  would  be  a  family  man."  See  there  how  the 
dishes  are  made  to  play  into  one  another's  hands ;  how  the 
roast  shoulder  of  mutton  of  Monday  (though  there  is  no 
mention  made  of  the  onion  sauce)  becomes  the  currie  or 
grill  of  Tuesday ;  how  the  boiled  cod  of  Thursday  becomes 
the  bechamel  of  Friday,  a  still  better  thing  than  boiled 
cod  !  Feed  a  man  according  to  those  receipts,  and  I  engage 
to  say  he  nevei^  would  dine  out,  especially  on  Saturdays,  with 
that  delicious  bouilli  garnished  with  onions, — though,  to  be 
sure,  there  is  a  trifle  too  much  beef  in  the  carte  of  the  day ; 
and  I  for  my  part  should  prefer  a  dish  of  broiled  fish  in 
the  place  of  the  lamb-chops  with  potatoes,  the  dinner  as  it 
stands  here  being  a  trifle  too  brown. 

One  day  in  the  week  a  man  might  have  a  few  friends 
and  give  them  any  one  of  these  :  — 


BARMECIDE   BANQUETS.  41 


Good  Family  Dinners  of  Seven  Dishes. 

Crimped  Salmon. 
Lobster  Sauce,  or  Parsley  and  Butter. 
Mashed  Potatoes,  Mince  Pies,  or  Bissoles. 

in  small  shaj^es.  Irish  Stew. 

( Remove  —  Apple-pie  ) 

Oxford  Dumplings.  Mince  Yeal. 

Pickles. 

Roast  of  Beef. 


Irish  Stew,  or  Haricot  of  Mutton. 

Chickens.  Mashed  Potatoes. 

Fritters. 

Apple  Sauce.  Tongue  on  Spinach, 


or  a  Piece  of  Ham. 


Stubble  Goost 


Fried  Soles. 
Savory  Patties.  Onion  Soup.  Salad. 

(  Remove  —  A  Charlotte. ) 
Macaroni.  Sliced  Cucumber.      Veal  Sweetbreads. 

Saddle  of  Mutton  roasted. 

Very  moderate  means  might  enable  a  man  to  give  such  a 
dinner  as  this ;  and  liow  good  they  all  are  !  I  should  like 
to  see  eight  good  fellows  over  Xo.  3,  for  instance,  —  six 
men,  say,  and  two  ladies.  They  would  not  take  any  onion 
soup,  of  course,  though  all  the  men  would ;  but  the  veal 
sweetbreads  and  the  remove,  a  charlotte,  are  manifestly 
meant  for  them.  There  would  be  no  champagne,  the 
dinner  is  too  jolly  and  hourrjenis  for  that ;  but  after  they 
had  partaken  of  a  glass  of  wine  and  had  retired,  just  three 
bottles  of  excellent  claret  would  be  discussed  by  us  six, 
and  every  man  who  went  upstairs  to  coffee  would  make 
himself  agreeable.  In  such  a  house  the  coffee  would  be 
good.  The  way  to  make  good  coffee  is  a  secret  known 
only  to  very  few  housekeepers,  —  it  is  to  have  plenty  of 
coffee. 

Thus  do  Joseph  Bregion  and  Anne  IMiller  care  for  high 
and  low.  They  provide  the  domestic  dinner  to  be  calm  in 
the  bosoms  of  private  families ;  they  invent  bills  of  fare 
for  the  jolly  family  part}',  that  pleasantest  of  all  meetings; 
and  they  expand  upon  occasion  and  give  us  the  magnificent 
parade  banquet  of  three  courses,  at  which  kings  or  fellows 
of  colleges  may  dine.  If  you  will  ask  your  cook  at  Saint 
Boniface  to  try  either  of  the  dinners  marked  for  January 


42       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART, 

and  February,  and  will  send  your  obedient  servant  a  line, 
he  for  one  will  be  happy  to  come  down  and  partake  of  it 
at  Oxford. 

I  could  go  on  prattling  in  this  easy  innocent  way  for 
hours,  my  dear  Lionel,  but  the  Editor  of  this  Magazine 
( about  whose  capabilities  I  have  my  own  opinion )  has 
limited  me  to  space,  and  that  space  is  now  pretty  nearly 
occupied.  I  should  like  to  have  had  a  chat  with  you  about 
the  Indian  dishes,  the  chapter  on  which  is  very  scientific 
and  savory.  The  soup  and  broth  chapter  is  rich,  learned, 
and  philosophical.  French  cookery  is  not,  of  course,  ap- 
profondi  or  elaborately  described,  but  nobly  raisonne,,  like 
one  of  your  lectures  on  a  Greek  play,  where  you  point  out 
in  eloquent  terms  the  salient  beauties,  sketch  with  masterly 
rapidity  the  principal  characters,  and  gracefully  unweave 
the  complications  of  the  metre.  But  I  have  done.  The 
'' Practical  Cook  "  will  triumph  of  his  own  force  without 
my  puny  aid  to  drag  the  wheels  of  his  car.  Let  me  fling  a 
few  unpretending  flowers  over  it,  and  sing  lo  to  the  victor! 
Happy  is  the  writer,  happy  the  possessor,  happy  above  all 
the  publishers  of  such  a  book  ! 

Farewell,  dear  Lionel ;  present  my  respectful  remem- 
brances to  the  Master  of  your  college  and  our  particular 
chums  in  the  common-room.  I  am  come  to  town  for 
Christmas,  so  you  may  send  the  brawn  to  my  lodgings  as 
soon  as  you  like. 

Your  faithful 

G.  S.  F.-B. 


ABOUT   A    CHRISTMAS   BOOK.  43 


ABOUT   A   CHRISTMAS   BOOK. 

IN  A  LETTER    FROM    MICHAEL    AXGELO    TITMARSH    TO  OLI\'ER 
YORKE,  ESQ. 

{Fraser's  Magazine,  December,  1845.] 

The  Deanery,  Xoveraber  25th. 
At  this  season  of  approaching  Christmas,  when  tender 
mothers  are  furbisliing  up  the  children's  bedrooms,  and 
airing  the  mattresses  which  those  little  darlings  (now  count- 
ing the  days  at  Dr.  Swishtail's  Academy,  or  the  Misses 
Backboard's  Finishing  Establishment)  are  to  occupy  for 
six  happy  weeks,  we  have  often,  dear  Mr.  Yorke,  examined 
the  beautiful  store  of  gilt  books  with  pretty  pictures,  which 
begin  to  glitter  on  Mr.  Niekisson's  library -table,  and  se- 
lected therefrom  a  store  of  presents  for  our  numerous  young 
friends.  It  is  a  pleasant  labor.  T  like  the  kindly  produce 
which  Taternoster  Row  sends  forth  at  this  season,  I  like 
Christmas  books,  Christinas  ])antomimes,  mince-pies,  snap- 
dragon, and  all  Christmas  fruit ;  for  though  you  and  I  can 
have  no  personal  gratification  in  the  two  last-named  dele- 
terious enjoyments,  —  to  eat  that  abominable  compound  of 
currants,  preserves,  and  puff-paste,  which  infallibly  results 
in  a  blue-pill ;  or  to  dip  in  a  dish  of  inflamed  brandy  for 
the  purpose  of  fishing  out  scalded  raisins,  which  we  don't 
like,  —  yet  it  gives  us  pleasure  to  see  the  young  people  so 
occupied,  a  melancholy  and  tender  pleasure.  We  indulge 
in  pleasant  egotisms  of  youthful  reminiscence.  The  days 
of  our  boyhood  come  back  again.  The  holy  holidays! 
How  much  better  you  remember  those  days  than  any 
other.  How  sacred  their  happiness  is ;  how  keen  even  at 
this  minute  their  misery.     I  forget  whether  I  have  told 

elsewhere  the  story  of   my  friend,  Sir  John  C .     He 

came  down  to  breakfast  with  rather  a  disturbed  and  pallid 
countenance.  His  lady  affectionately  asked  the  cause  of  his 
disquiet.  •'  I  have  had  an  unpleasant  dream.  I  dreamed  I 
was  at  Charter-House,  and  that  Raine  flogged  me ! "     He 


44       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

is  sixty-five  years  old.  A  thousand  great  events  may  have 
happened  to  him  since  that  period  of  youthful  fustigation. 
Empires  have  Avaxed  and  waned  since  then.  He  has  come 
into  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year ;  Napoleon  is  dead 
since  that  period,  and  also  the  late  Mr.  Pitt.  How  many 
manly  friends,  hopes,  cares,  pleasures,  have  risen  and  died, 
and  been  forgotten !  But  not  so  the  joys  and  pains  of  boy- 
hood, the  deliglits  of  the  holidays  are  still  as  brilliant  as 
ever  to  him,  the  buds  of  the  school  birch-rod  still  tickle 
bitterly  the  shrinking  os  coccygis  of  memory  ! 

Do  you  not  remember,  my  dear  fellow,  our  own  joy  when 
the  12th  came  and  we  plunged  out  of  school,  not  to  see  the 
face  of  Muzzle  for  six  weeks  ?  A  good  and  illustrious  boy 
were  you,  dear  Oliver,  and  did  your  exercises,  and  mine 
too,  with  credit  and  satisfaction ;  but  still  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  turn  your  back  upon  Muzzle.  Can  you  ever  forget  the 
glories  of  the  beefsteak  at  the  Bull  and  Mouth,  previous  to 
going  lionie;  and  the  majestic  way  in  which  we  ordered  the 
port,  and  pronounced  it  to  be  "  ropy  "  or  "  fruity ; "  and 
criticised  the  steak  as  if  we  had  been  Joseph  Bregion,  cook 
to  Prince  Easumowski  ?  At  twenty-five  minutes  past  four 
precisely,  the  grays  were  in  the  coach,  and  the  guard 
comes  in  and  says,  "  Now,  gentlemen ! "  We  lighted 
cigars  magnanimously  (since  marriage  —  long,  long  before 
His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  pathetic  orders  against 
smoking,  we  gave  up  the  vile  habit).  We  take  up  the  in- 
sides  at  the  office  in  the  Quadrant ;  and  go  bowling  down 
Piccadilly  on  the  road  to  Hounslow,  Snow  the  guard  playing 
^'  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  on  the  bugle.  How  clear  it  twangs 
on  the  ear  even  now !  Can  you  ever  forget  the  cold  veal- 
pies  at  Bagshot,  and  the  stout  waiter  with  black  tights,  on 
the  lookout  for  the  coach  as  it  came  in  to  a  minute  ?  Jim 
Ward  used  to  drive.  I  wonder  where  Jim  is  now.  Is  he 
gone  ?  Yes,  probably.  Why,  the  whole  road  is  a  ghost 
since  then.  The  coaches  and  horses  have  been  whisked 
up,  and  are  passed  away  into  Hades.  The  gaunt  inns  are 
tenantless ;  the  notes  of  the  horn  that  we  used  to  hear 
tooting  over  Salisbury  Plain  as  the  dawn  rose  and  the 
wind  was  nipping  cold,  are  reverberating  in  endless  space. 
Where  are  the  jolly  turnpike-men  who  used  to  come  out  as 
the  lamps  lighted  up  the  white  bars  of  the  gates,  and  the 
horses  were  in  a  halo  of  smoke  ?  How  they  used  to  go  over 
the  six  miles  between  Honiton  and  Escot  Lodge !  And 
there  —  there  on  Fair  Mile  Hill  is  the  little  carriage  wait- 


ABOUT  A    CHRISTMAS  BOOK,  45 

ing,  and  Home  in  it,  looking  out  with  sweet  eyes  —  eyes, 
oh,  how  steadfast,  and  loving,  and  tender. 

This  sentimentalism  may  surprise  my  revered  friend  and 
annoy  the  public,  who  are  not  called  upon  to  be  interested 
in  their  humble  servant's  juvenile  biography;  but  it  all 
comes  very  naturally  out  of  the  opening  discussion  about 
Christmas  and  Christmas  books  in  general,  and  of  this 
book  in  particular,  just  published  by  Mr.  Burns,  the  very 
best  of  all  Christmas  books.  Let  us  say  this,  dear  Yorke, 
who,  in  other  days,  have  pitilessly  trampled  on  Forget-me- 
nots,  and  massacred  whole  galleries  of  Books  of  Beauty. 
By  the  way,  what  has  happened  to  the  beauties  ?  Is  ^lay 
Fair  used  up  ?  One  does  not  wish  to  say  anything  rude, 
but  I  would  wager  that  any  tea-party  in  Red  Lion  Square 
will  turn  out  a  dozen  ladies  to  the  full  as  handsome  as  the 
charmers  with  whose  })ortraits  we  are  favored  this  year. 
There  are  two  in  particular  whom  I  really  never  —  but  let 
us  not  be  too  personal,  and  return  to  ]Mr.  Burns's  "  Poems 
and  Pictures." 

The  charming  Lieder  und  Bilder  of  the  Dusseldorf 
painters  has,  no  doubt,  given  the  idea  of  the  work.  The 
German  manner  lias  found  favor  among  some  of  our  artists 
—  the  Puseyites  of  art,  tliey  may  be  called,  in  this  country, 
such  as  Messrs.  Cope,  Redgrave,  Townshend,  Horsley,  etc. ; 
who  go  back  to  the  masters  before  Raphael,  or  to  his  own 
best  time  (that  of  his  youth)  for  their  models  of  grace  and 
beauty.  Their  designs  have  a  religious  and  ascetic,  not  a 
heathen  and  voluptuous  tendency.  There  is  in  them  no 
revelling  in  boisterous  nudities  like  Rubens,  no  glowing 
contemplation  of  lovely  forms  as  in  Titian  and  Etty,  but 
a  meek,  modest,  and  downcast  demeanor.  They  appeal  to 
tender  sympathies,  and  deal  with  subjects  of  conjugal  or 
maternal  love,  or  charity,  or  devotion.  In  poetry,  Goethe 
can't  find  favor  in  their  eyes,  but  Uhland  does.  ]\Iilton  is 
too  vast  for  them,  Shakespeare  too  earthy,  but  mystic 
Collins  is  a  favorite ;  and  gentle  Cowper;  and  Alford  sings 
pious  hymns  for  them  to  the  mild  strains  of  his  little  organ. 

The  united  work  of  these  poets  and  artists  is  ver}^  well 
suited  to  the  kind  and  gentle  Christmas  season.  All  the 
verses  are  not  good,  and  some  of  the  pictures  are  but  feeble ; 
yet  the  whole  impression  of  the  volume  is  an  exceedingly 
pleasant '  one.  The  solemn  and  beautiful  forms  of  the 
figures ;  the  sweet,  soothing  cadences  and  themes  of  the 


46       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

verso,  affect  one  like  music.  Pictures  and  songs  are  sur- 
rounded by  beautiful  mystical  arabesques,  waving  and  twin- 
ing  round  each  page.  Every  now  and  then  you  light  upon 
one  which  is  so  pretty,  it  looks  as  if  you  had  put  a  flower 
between  the  leaves.  You  wander  about  and  lose  yourself 
amongst  these  pleasant  labyrinths,  and  sit  down  to  repose 
on  the  garden-bench  of  the  fancy  (this  is  a  fine  image), 
smelling  the  springing  blossoms,  and  listening  to  the  chirp- 
ing birds  that  shoot  about  amidst  the  flickering  sunshine 
and  the  bending  twigs  and  leaves.  All  this  a  man  with 
the  least  imagination  can  do  in  the  heart  of  winter,  seated 
in  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  with  the  "  Poems  and  Pictures  " 
in  his  hand.  What  were  life  good  for,  dear  Yorke,  without 
that  blessed  gift  of  fancy  ?  Let  us  be  thankful  to  those 
kind  spirits  who  minister  to  it  by  painting,  or  poetry,  or 
music.  When  Mrs.  Y.  has  sung  a  song  of  Haydn's  to  you, 
I  have  seen  the  tears  of  happiness  twinkle  in  your  eyes ; 
and  at  certain  airs  of  Mozart,  have  known  the  intrepid,  the 
resolute,  the  stern  Oliver  to  be  as  much  affected  as  the  soft- 
hearted Molly  of  a  milkmaid  mentioned  by  Mr.  Words- 
worth, who,  moved  by  the  singing  of  a  blackbird,  beheld  a 
vision  of  trees  in  Lothbury,  and  a  beautiful,  clear  Cumber- 
land stream  dashing  down  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Mary 
Axe. 

And  this  is  the  queer  power  of  Art ;  that  when  you  wish 
to  describe  its  effect  upon  you,  you  always  fall  to  describ- 
ing something  else.  I  cannot  answer  for  it  that  a  picture 
is  not  a  beautiful  melody ;  that  a  grand  sonnet  by  Tenny- 
son is  not  in  reality  a  landscape  by  Titian ;  that  the  last 
pas  by  Taglioni  is  not  a  bunch  of  roses  or  an  ode  of  Horace; 
but  I  am  sure  that  the  enjoyment  of  the  one  has  straight- 
way brought  the  other  to  my  mind,  and  vice  versa.  Who 
knows  that  the  blind  man,  who  said  that  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet  was  his  idea  of  scarlet,  was  not  perfectly  right  ? 
Very  likely  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  is  scarlet.  In  the  mat- 
ter of  this  book  of  "Poems  and  Pictures,"  I  have  never 
read  prettier  pictures  than  many  of  these  verses  are,  or 
seen  handsomer  poems  hung  up  in  any  picture-gallery. 
Mrs.  Cope's  poem  of  the  "  Village  Stile  "  is  the  first  piece 
as  you  enter  the  gallery  :  — 

"Age  sat  upon't  when  tired  of  straying, 
And  children  that  had  been  a-maying 

Tliere  twined  their  garlands  gay: 
What  tender  partings,  blissful  meetings, 
What  faint  denials,  fond  entreatings, 

It  witnessed  in  its  day! 


ABOUT  A    CHRISTMAS  BOOK.  47 

The  milkmaid  on  its  friendly  rail 
Would  ofttimes  rest  her  brimful  pail, 

And  liiigeriug  there  a  while, 
Some  lucky  chance  —  that  tell-tale  cheek 
Doth  something  more  than  chance  bespeak!  — 
(The  sly  rogue  I) 

Brings  Lubin  to  the  stile. 

But  what  he  said  or  she  replied, 
Whether  he  asked  her  for  his  bride, 

And  she  so  sought  was  won, 
There  is  no  chronicle  to  tell; 
For  silent  is  the  oracle, 

The  village  stile  is  gone." 

In  the  very  midst  of  these  verses,  and  from  a  hedge  full 
of  birds,  and  flowers,  and  creeping  plants  tangling  round 
them,  the  village  stile  breaks  out  upon  you.  There  is  Age 
sitting  upon  it,  returning  home  from  market;  on  t'other 
side  the  children,  who  have  been  maying,  are  twining  their 
garlands.  The  cottage  chimney  is  smoking  comfortably; 
the  birds  in  the  arabesque  are  making  a  great  chirping  and 
twittering ;  the  young  folks  go  in,  the  old  farmer  hobbles 
over  the  stile  and  has  gone  to  supper ;  the  evening  has 
come,  it  is  page  3.  The  birds  in  the  arabesque  have  gone 
to  roost ;  the  sun  is  going  down  ;  the  milkmaid  is  sitting 
on  the  stile  now  —  beautiful,  sweet,  down-eyed,  tender  milk- 
maid !  —  and  has  her  hand  in  Lubin's,  somehow.  Lubin  is  a 
capital  name  for  him  ;  a  very  meek,  soft,  handsome,  young 
fellow;  just  such  a  sentimental-looking  spooney  as  a  per- 
verse lass  would  choose ;  and  at  page  4,  the  village  stile  is 
gone.  And  what  is  it  we  have  in  its  stead,  lackaday  ? 
What  means  that  broken  lily  ?  How  comes  that  young 
lady  in  the  flowing  bedgown  to  be  lying  on  the  floor,  her 
head  upon  the  cushion  of  her  praying-stool  ?  Alas,  the  lily 
is  the  emblem  of  the  young  lady!  Jeunejille  etjeune  fear, 
they  are  both  done  for.  Woe  is  me,  that  two  so  young  and 
beautiful  should  be  nipped  off  thus  suddenly,  the  Lady  Lys 
and  Fleur  de  ^larie !  Sic  jacent,  and  Mr.  Alford  comes 
like  a  robin  and  pipes  a  dirge  over  the  pair  :  — 

"Thou  wert  fair,  Lady  Mary, 
As  the  lily  in  the  sun; 
And  fairer  yet  thou  mightest  be, 
Thy  youth  was  but  begun. 

Thine  eye  was  soft  and  glancing. 

Of  the  deep  bright  blue. 
And  on  the  heart  thy  gentle  words, 

Fell  lighter  than  the  dew. 


48       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

They  found  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

With  thy  pahns  upon  thy  breast, 
Even  as  thou  hadst  been  praying 

At  thy  hour  of  rest. 

The  cold  pale  moon  was  shining 

On  thy  cold  pale  cheek, 
And  the  Morn  of  thy  Nativity 

Had  just  begun  to  break." 

A  sad  Christmas  tliis,  indeed !  but  the  frieuds  of  Lady 
j\Iary  must  be  consoled  by  the  delightful  picture  which  Mr. 
Dyce  has  left  of  her.  How  tenderly  she  lies  there  with 
folded  palms,  the  typical  lily  bending  sadly  over  her ! 
Pretty,  prim,  and  beautified,  it  would  be  almost  disrespect- 
ful to  mourn  over  such  an  angel. 

But  when  we  get  to  a  real  character  —  a  real  woman  — 
(though  no  great  beauty,  if  Mr.  Horsley's  portrait  of  her 
be  a  true  one)  —  where  we  have  a  poet  speaking  of  genuine 
feeling  —  Cowper  Avriting  on  receipt  of  his  mother's  picture 
out  of  Norfolk — a  man's  heart  is  very  differently  moved : — 

'' '  Oh  that  those  lips  had  language.'     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thine  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
'  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away!' 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blessed  by  the  art  that  can  immortalize,  — 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long; 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own: 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief; 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she." 

How  tender  and  true  the  verses  are  !  How  naturally  the 
thoughts  rise  as  the  poet  looks  at  the  calm  portrait ;  and 
the  sacred  days  of  childhood  come  rising  back  again  to  his 
memory.  The  very  trivialities  in  subsequent  parts  of  the 
poem  betoken  its  authenticity,  and  bear  witness  to  the 
naturalness  of  the  emotion  :  — 


ABOUT  A    CHRISTMAS  BOOK.  49 

"Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  alonsc  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap: 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  onr  own. 
Short-lived  possession!  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid* 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit  or  confectionery  plum; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes;  — 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  mo  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  "thee  as  my  numbers  may! 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here." 

Even  that  twaddling  about  biscuit  and  confectionery  plum 
has  a  charm  in  it.  You  see  the  gentle  lady  busied  in  her 
offices  of  kindness  for  the  timid,  soft-hearted  boy. 

*'  Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun," 

conscience  comes  even  there  to  disturb  that  delicate  spirit, 
and  imbi'tter  the  best  and  earliest  memorials  of  life.  Mr. 
Horsley  follows  the  painter  down  the  text  with  delightful 
commentaries ;  he  has  illustrated  the  lines  which  a  certain 
chair-maker  has  rendered  abominably  common,  and  shows 
us  the  gardener  Robin  leading  the  boy  to  school  in  scarlet 
mantle  and  warm  velvet  cap.  The  kind  mother  is  peering 
from  the  garden-gate  before  the  parsonage,  and  the  old 
church  in  the  quiet  village. 

One  great  charm  in  the  verses  has  always  been  to  me, 
that  he  does  not  grieve  too  much  for  her.  The  kind,  hum- 
ble heart  follows  her  up  to  heaven,  and  there  meekly  ac- 
knowledges her.  '•  The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the 
skies,"  says  the  filial  spirit,  so  humble  that  he  doubted  of 
himself   only.     The  little  churchyard  sketch  with  which 


50        CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Mr.  Ilorsley  closes  this  sweet  elegy  is  a  delightful  com- 
ment oil  it,  —  the  poem  in  the  shape  of  a  picture  it  seems 
to  me.  One  may  muse  over  both  for  hours,  and  get  noth- 
ing but  the  sweetest  and  kindest  thoughts  from  either. 

Whether  it  is  that  where  the  verses  fail,  the  artists  are 
feeble,  or  that  a  poor  poem  makes  a  discord,  as  it  were, 
and  destroys  the  harmony  which  the  concert  of  poet  and 
painter  ought  to  produce,  I  don't  know :  but  if  the  verses 
are  feeble,  the  pictures  look  somehow  unsatisfactory  by 
their  side ;  and  one  believes  in  neither.  Thus  the  next 
illustrated  poem,  "The  Tale  of  the  Coast  Guard,"  is  too 
fine  and  pompous,  and  the  accompanying  picture  by  Ked- 
grave  equally  unreal.  "  Sir  Eoland  Graeme,"  with  illustra- 
tions by  Selous,  very  clever  and  spirited,  affects  me  no 
way.  I  do  not  care  if  I  see  those  theatrical  fellows 
plunging  and  fighting  with  harmless  broadswords  again. 
Whereas,  at  the  next  page,  you  come  to  some  verses  about 
a  snowdrop,  and  a  picture  overhead  of  that  small  bulbous 
beauty  —  to  look  at  both,  which  causes  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure ?  All  the  pages  adorned  with  natural  illustrations  are 
pleasant ;  such  as  the  holly  which  figures  by  the  famous 
old  song  of  "  When  this  Old  Cap  was  New  ;  "  some  butter- 
cups which  illustrate  a  subject  as  innocent,  etc.  Where 
there  is  violent  action  requisite  the  artists  seem  to  fail, 
except  in  one,  or  couple  of  instances.  Mr.  Tenniel  has 
given  a  gallant  illustration  of  the  ballad  of  "  War  comes 
with  manhood,  as  light  comes  w^ith  day,"  in  which  draw- 
ing there  is  great  fire  and  energy;  and  Mr.  Corbould's 
"Wild  Huntsman"  has  no  little  vigor  and  merit.  His 
illustrations  to  the  legend  of  Gilbert  a  Beckett  are  quite 
tame  and  conventional.  Mr.  Tenniel's  "Prince  and  Out- 
law "  represent  a  prince  and  outlaw  of  Astley's  —  the  valor- 
ous Widdicomb  and  the  intrepid  Gomersal.  The  truth  is 
that  the  ballads  to  which  the  pictures  are  appended  are  of 
the  theatrical  sort,  and  quite  devoid  of  genuineness  and 
simplicity. 

But  set  them  to  deal  with  a  real  sentiment  and  the 
artists  appreciate  it  excellently.  Witness  Cope's  delightful 
drawings  to  "  The  Mourner,"  his  SAveet  figures  to  the  sweet 
and  plaintive  old  ballad  of  "Cumnor  Hall."  Townshend's 
excellent  compositions  to  the  "Miner;"  Dyce's  charming 
illustration  of  the  "  Christ-Cross  Rhyme,"  —  in  which  page 
both  poet  and  painter  have  perfectly  reproduced  the  Catho- 
lic spirit :  — 


ABOUT  A    CHRISTMAS   BOOK.  51 

"  Christ  his  Cross  shall  be  my  speed  ! 
Teach  me,  Father  John,  to  read, 
That  ill  church  on  holy-day 
I  may  chant  the  psalm,  and  pray. 

Let  me  learn,  that  I  may  know 
What  the  sliining  windows  show, 
With  that  bright  Cliild  in  her  hands, 
Where  the  lovely  Lady  stands. 

Teach  me  letters  one,  two,  three, 
Till  that  I  shall  able  be 
Signs  to  know,  and  words  to  frame 
And  to  spell  sweet  Jesu's  name. 

Then,  dear  master,  will  I  look 
Day  and  night  in  that  fair  book 
Where  the  tales  of  saints  are  told. 
With  their  pictures  all  in  geld. 

Teach  me.  Father  John,  to  say 
Vesper-verse  and  matin-lay; 
So  when  1  to  God  shall  plead, 
Christ  his  Cross  will  be  my  speed." 

A  pretty  imitation,  indeed.  Copes  and  censers,  stained 
glass  and  choristers,  —  all  the  middle-age  paraphernalia, 
produced  with  an  accuracy  that  is  curiously  perfect  and 
picturesque.  But,  0  my  dearly  beloved  Oliver !  what  are 
these  meek  canticles  and  gentle  nasal  concerts  compared 
to  the  full  sound  which  issues  from  the  generous  lungs 
when  A  Poet  begins  to  sing  !  — 

**  And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 
That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 
Ae  blink  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 
Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows,  amang  the  knowes, 

Hae  passed  atween  us  twa! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part, 

That  night  she  gaed  awa!" 

Heaven  bless  the  music  !  It  is  a  warm,  manly,  kindly 
heart  that  speaks  there,  —  a  grateful,  generous  soul  that 
looks  at  God's  world  with  honest  eyes,  and  trusts  to  them 
rather  than  to  the  blinking  peepers  of  his  neighbor.  Such 
a  man  walking  the  fields  and  singing  out  of  his  full  heart 
is  pleasanter  to  hear,  to  my  mind,  than  a  whole  organ-loft 
full  of  Puseyites,  or  an  endless  procession  of  quavering 
shavelings  from  Littlemore. 


52       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

But  every  bird  has  its  note,  from  the  blackbird  on  the 
tliorn  to  the  demure  pie  that  haunts  cathedral  yards,  and, 
when  caught,  can  be  taught  to  imitate  anything.  Here 
you  have  a  whole  aviary  of  them.  Cowper,  that  coos  like 
a  dove ;  Collins,  that  complains  like  a  nightingale ;  with 
others  that  might  be  compared  to  the  brisk  bulhnch,  the 
polite  canary,  or  the  benevolent  cock-robin ;  —  each  sings, 
chirps,  twitters,  cock-a-doodledoos  in  his  fashion  —  a  pleas- 
ant chorus.  And  I  recommend  you,  dear  Yorke,  and  the 
candid  reader,  to  purchase  the  cage. 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD,  53 


A  BROTHER  OF  THE  PRESS  OX  THE  HISTORY 
OF  A  LITERARY  MAX,  LA:\IAX  BLAXCHARD, 
AND  THE  CHAXCES  OF  THE  LITERARY  PRO- 
FESSIOX. 

IN     A     LETTER    TO    THE    REVEREND    FRANCIS     SYLVESTER    AT 
ROME,  FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH,  ESQUIRE. 

{Fraser's  Magazine,  March, 1M6.  ] 

London,  February  20,  1846. 

M?/  dear  Sir,  —  (,)ur  good  friend  and  patron,  the  pub- 
lisher of  this  Magazinp.  has  brought  me  your  message  from 
Rome,  and  your  demand  to  hear  news  from  tlie  other  great 
city  of  the  world.  As  the  forty  columns  of  tlie  limes 
cannot  satisfy  your  Reverence's  craving,  and  the  details  of 
the  real  great  revolution  of  England  which  is  actually 
going  on  do  not  sufficiently  interest  3'ou,  I  send  you  a  page 
or  two  of  random  speculations  upon  matters  connected  with 
the  literary  profession  :  they  were  suggested  by  reading 
the  works  and  the  biography  of  a  literary  friend  of  ours, 
lately  deceased,  and  for  whom  every  person  who  knew  him 
had  the  warmest  and  sincerest  regard.  And  no  wonder. 
It  was  impossible  to  help  trusting  a  man  so  thoroughly 
generous  and  honest,  and  loving  one  who  was  so  perfectly 
gay,  gentle,  and  amiable. 

A  man  can't  enjoy  everything  in  the  world ;  but  what 
delightful  gifts  and  qualities  are  these  to  have  !  Xot  hav- 
ing known  Blanchard  as  intimately  as  some  others  did,  yet, 
I  take  it,  he  had  in  his  life  as  much  pleasure  as  falls  to 
most  men ;  the  kindest  friends,  the  most  affectionate  fam- 
ily, a  heart  to  enjoy  both;  and  a  career  not  undistin- 
guished, which  I  hold  to  be  the  smallest  matter  of  all. 
But  we  have  a  cowardly  dislike,  or  compassion  for,  the  fact 
of  a  man  dying  poor.  Such  a  one  is  rich,  bilious,  and  a 
curmudgeon,  without  heart  or  stomach  to  enjoy  his  money, 
and  we  set  him  down  as  respectable :  another  is  morose  or 
passionate,  his  whole  view  of  life  seen  bloodshot  through 


54       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

passion,  or  jaundiced  through  moroseness ;  or  he  is  a  fool 
who  can't  see,  or  feel,  or  enjoy  anything  at  all,  with  no  ear 
for  music,  no  eye  for  beauty,  no  heart  for  love,  with 
nothing  except  money  :  we  meet  such  people  every  day,  and 
respect  them  somehow.  That  donkey  browses  over  five 
thousand  acres ;  that  madman's  bankers  come  bowing  him 
out  to  his  carriage.  You  feel  secretly  pleased  at  shooting 
over  the  acres,  or  driving  in  the  carriage.  At  any  rate, 
nobod}^  thinks  of  compassionating  their  owners.  We  are  a 
race  of  flunkeys,  and  keep  our  pity  for  the  poor. 

I  don't  mean  to  affix  the  plush  personally  upon  the  kind 
and  distinguished  gentleman  and  writer  who  has  written 
Blanchard's  Memoir;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  couched 
in  much  too  despondent  a  strain  ;  that  the  lot  of  the  hero  of 
the  little  story  was  by  no  means  deplorable ;  and  that  there 
is  not  the  least  call  at  present  to  be  holding  up  literary  men 
as  martyrs.  Even  that  prevailing  sentiment  which  regrets 
that  means  should  not  be  provided  for  giving  them  leisure, 
for  enabling  them  to  perfect  great  works  in  retirement, 
that  they  should  waste  away  their  strength  with  fugitive 
literature,  etc.,  I  hold  to  be  often  uncalled  for  and  danger- 
ous. I  believe,  if  most  men  of  letters  were  to  be  pensioned, 
I  am  sorry  to  say  I  believe  they  wouldn't  work  at  all ;  and 
of  others,  that  the  labor  which  is  to  answer  the  calls  of  the 
day  is  the  one  quite  best  suited  to  their  genius.  Suppose 
Sir  Robert  Peel  were  to  write  to  you,  and,  enclosing  a 
check  for  20,000^.,  instruct  you  to  pension  any  fifty  de- 
serving authors,  so  that  they  might  have  leisure  to  retire 
and  write  "  great "  works,  on  whom  would  you  fix  ? 

People  in  the  big-book  interest,  too,  cry  out  against  the 
fashion  of  fugitive  literature,  and  no  wonder.  For  in- 
stance, — 

The  Times  gave  an  extract  the  other  day  from  a  work  by 
one  Doctor  Carus,  physician  to  the  King  of  Saxony,  who 
attended  his  royal  master  on  his  recent  visit  to  England, 
and  has  written  a  book  concerning  tlie  journey.  Among 
other  London  lions,  the  illustrious  traveller  condescended 
to  visit  one  of  the  largest  and  most  remarkable,  certainly, 
of  metropolitan  roarers  —  the  Times  printing-office ;  of 
which,  the  Doctor,  in  his  capacity  of  a  man  of  science, 
gives  an  exceedingly  bad,  stupid,  and  blundering  account. 

Carus  was  struck  with  "  disgust,"  he  says,  at  tlie  prodi- 
gious size  of  the  paper,  and  at  tlie  thought  which  sug- 
gested itself  to  his  mind  from  this  enormity.     There  was  as 


LAMAN   BLANCHARD.  bo 

much  printed  every  day  as  would  fill  a  thick  volume.  It 
required  ten  years  of  life  to  a  philosopher  to  write  a  volume. 
The  issuing  of  these  daily  tomes  was  unfair  upon  philoso- 
phers, who  were  put  out  of  the  market ;  and  unfair  on  the 
public,  who  were  made  to  receive  (and,  worse  still,  to  get  a 
relish  for)  crude  daily  speculations,  and  frivolous  epheme- 
ral news,  when  they  ought  to  be  fed  and  educated  upon 
stronger  and  simpler  diet. 

We  have  heard  this  outcr}^  a  hundred  times  from  the  big- 
wig body.  The  world  gives  up  a  lamentable  portion  of  its 
time  to  fleeting  literature ;  authors  who  might  be  occupied 
upon  great  works  fritter  away  their  lives  in  producing  end- 
less hasty  sketches.  Kind,  wise,  and  good  Doctor  Arnold 
deplored  the  fatal  sympathy  which  the  ''  Pickwick  Papers  " 
had  created  among  the  boys  of  his  school ;  and  it  is  a  fact 
that  Punch  is  as  regularly  read  among  the  boys  at  Eton  as 
the  Latin  Grammar. 

Arguing  for  liberty  of  conscience  against  any  authority, 
however  great  —  against  Doctor  Arnold  himself,  who  seems 
to  me  to  be  the  greatest,  wisest,  and  best  of  men,  that  has 
appeared  for  eighteen  hundred  years ;  let  us  take  a  stand 
at  once,  and  ask.  Why  should  not  the  day  have  its  litera- 
ture ?  Why  should  not  authors  make  light  sketches  ?  Wiiy 
should  not  the  public  be  amused  daily  or  frequently  by 
kindly  Actions  ?  It  is  well  and  just  for  Arnold  to  object. 
Light  stories  of  Jingle  and  Tupman,  and  Sam  Weller  quips 
and  cranks,  must  have  come  with  but  a  bad  grace  before 
that  pure  and  lofty  soul.  The  trivial  and  familiar  are  out 
of  place  there  ;  the  harmless  joker  must  walk  away  abashed 
from  such  a  presence,  as  he  would  be  silent  and  hushed  in 
a  cathedral.  But  all  the  world  is  not  made  of  that  angelic 
stuff.  From  his  very  height  and  sublimity  of  virtue  he 
could  but  look  down  and  deplore  the  ways  of  small  men 
beneath  him.  I  mean,  seriously,  that  I  think  the  man  was 
of  so  august  and  sublime  a  nature,  that  he  was  not  a  fair 
judge  of  us,  or  of  the  ways  of  the  generality  of  mankind. 
One  has  seen  a  delicate  person  sicken  and  faint  at  the 
smell  of  a  flower;  it  does  not  follow  that  the  flower  was 
not  sweet  and  wholesome  in  consequence ;  and  I  hold  that 
laughing  and  honest  story-books  are  good,  against  all  the 
doctors. 

Laughing  is  not  the  highest  occupation  of  a  man,  very 
certainly  ;  or  the  power  of  creating  it  the  height  of  genius. 
I  am  not  going  to  argue  for  that.     Xo  more  is  the  blacking 


56       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

of  boots  the  greatest  occupation.  But  it  is  done,  and  well 
and  honestly,  by  persons  ordained  to  that  calling  in  life, 
who  arrogate  to  themselves  (if  they  are  straightforward  and 
worthy  shoeblacks)  no  especial  rank  or  privilege  on  account 
of  their  calling ;  and  not  considering  boot-brushing  the 
greatest  effort  of  earthly  genius,  nevertheless  select  their 
Day  and  Martin,  or  Warren,  to  the  best  of  their  judgment ; 
polish  their  upper-leathers  as  well  as  they  can;  satisfy 
their  patrons  ;  and  earn  their  fair  wage. 

I  have  chosen  the  unpolite  shoeblack  comparison,  not  out 
of  disrespect  to  the  trade  of  literature  ;  but  it  is  as  good  a 
craft  as  any  other  to  select.  In  some  way  or  other,  for 
daily  bread  and  hire,  almost  all  men  are  laboring  daily. 
Without  necessity  they  would  not  work  at  all,  or  very  little, 
probably.  In  some  instances  you  reap  Keputation  along 
with  Profit  from  your  labor,  but  Bread,  in  the  main,  is  the 
incentive.  Do  not  let  us  try  to  blink  this  fact,  or  imagine 
that  the  men  of  the  press  are  working  for  their  honor  and 
glory,  or  go  onward  impelled  by  an  irresistible  afflatus  of 
genius.  If  only  men  of  genius  were  to  write,  Lord  help 
us  !  how  many  books  would  there  be  ?  How  many  people 
are  there  even  capable  of  appreciating  genius  ?  Is  Mr. 
Wakley's  or  Mr.  Hume's  opinion  about  poetry  worth 
much  ?  As  much  as  that  of  millions  of  people  in  this 
honest  stupid  empire ;  and  they  have  a  right  to  have  books 
supplied  for  them  as  well  as  the  most  polished  and  accom- 
plished critics  have.  The  literary  man  gets  his  bread  by 
providing  goods  suited  to  the  consumption  of  these.  This 
man  of  letters  contributes  a  police-report ;  that,  an  article 
containing  some  downright  information ;  this  one,  as  an 
editor,  abuses  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or  lauds  Lord  John  Russell, 
or  vice  versa  ;  writing  to  a  certain  class  who  coincide  in  his 
views,  or  are  interested  by  the  question  which  he  moots. 
The  literary  character,  let  us  hope  or  admit,  writes  quite 
honestly  ;  but  no  man  supposes  he  would  work  perpetually 
but  for  money.  And  as  for  immortality,  it  is  quite  beside 
the  bargain.  Is  it  reasonable  to  look  for  it,  or  to  pretend 
that  you  are  actuated  by  a  desire  to  attain  it  ?  Of  all  the 
quill-drivers,  how  many  have  ever  drawn  that  prodigious 
prize  ?  Is  it  fair  even  to  ask  that  many  should  ?  Out  of  a 
regard  for  poor  dear  posterity  and  men  of  letters  to  come, 
let  us  be  glad  that  the  great  immortality  number  comes  up 
so  rarely.  Mankind  would  have  no  time  otherwise,  and 
would  be  so  gorged  with  old  masterpieces,  that  they  could 


LAM  AN  BLANCH  A  RD.  57 

not  occupy  themselves  with  new,  and  future  literary  men 
would  have  no  chance  of  a  livelihood. 

To  do  your  work  honestly,  to  amuse  and  instruct  your 
reader  of  to-day,  to  die  when  your  time  comes,  and  go  hence 
with  as  clean  a  breast  as  may  be  ;  may  these  be  all  yours 
and  ours,  by  God's  will.  Let  us  be  content  with  our  status 
as  literary  craftsmen,  telling  the  truth  as  far  as  may  be,  hit- 
ting no  foul  blow,  condescending  to  no  servile  puffery,  till- 
ing not  a  very  lofty,  but  a  manly  and  honorable  part. 
Nobody  says  that  Doctor  Locock  is  wasting  his  time  be- 
cause he  rolls  about  daily  in  his  carriage,  and  passes  hours 
with  the  nobility  and  gentry,  his  patients,  instead  of  being  in 
his  study  wrapped  up  in  transcendental  medical  meditation. 
Nobody  accuses  Sir  Fitzroy  Kelly  of  neglecting  his  genius 
because  he  will  take  anybody's  brief,  and  argue  it  in  court 
for  money,  when  he  might  sit  in  chambers  with  his  oak 
S])orted,  and  give  up  his  soul  to  investigations  of  the  nature, 
history,  and  improvement  of  law.  There  is  no  question  but 
that  either  of  these  eminent  persons,  by  profound  study, 
might  increase  their  knowledge  in  certain  branches  of  their 
profession ;  but  in  the  mean  while  the  practical  part  must 
go  on — causes  come  on  for  hearing,  and  ladies  lie  in,  and 
some  one  must  be  there.  The  commodities  in  which  the 
lawyer  and  the  doctor  deal  are  absolutely  required  by  the 
public,  and  liberally  paid  for ;  every  day,  too,  the  public 
requires  more  literary  handicraft  done ;  the  practitioner  in 
that  trade  gets  a  better  pay  and  place.  In  another  century, 
very  likely,  his  work  will  be  so  necessary  to  the  people,  and 
his  market  so  good,  that  his  prices  will  double  and  treble  ; 
his  social  rank  rise  ;  he  will  be  getting  what  they  call 
''  honors,"  and  dying  in  the  bosom  of  the  genteel.  Our 
calling  is  only  sneered  at  because  it  is  not  Avell  paid.  The 
world" has  no  other  criterion  for  respectability.  In  Heaven's 
name,  what  made  people  talk  of  setting  up  a  statue  to  Sir 
William  Follett  ?  What  had  he  done  ?  He  had  made  300,- 
000/.  What  has  George  IV.  done  that  he,  too,  is  to  have  a 
brazen  image  ?  He  was  an  exemplar  of  no  greatness,  no 
good  quality,  no  duty  in  life  ;  but  a  type  of  magnificence, 
of  beautifufcoats,  carpets,  and  gigs,  turtle-soup,  chandeliers, 
cream-colored  horses,  and  delicious  Maraschino,  —  all  these 
good  things  he  expressed  and  represented  :  and  the  world, 
respecting  them  beyond  all  others,  raised  statues  to  "  the 
first  gentleman  in  ^Europe."'  Directly  the  men  of  letters 
get  rich,  they  will  come  in  for  their  share  of  honor  too  ;  and 


58        CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

a  future  writer  in  this  miscellany  may  be  getting  ten 
guineas  where  we  get  one,  and  dancing  at  Buckingham 
Palace  while  you  and  your  humble  servant,  dear  Padre 
Francesco,  are  glad  to  smoke  our  pipes  in  quiet  over  the 
sanded  floor  of  the  little  D . 

But  the  happy  honime  de  lettres,  whom  I  imagine  in 
futurity  kicking  his  heels  vis-a-vis  to  a  duchess  in  some 
fandango  at  the  Court  of  her  Majesty's  grandchildren,  will 
be  in  reality  no  better  or  honester,  or  more  really  near 
fame,  than  the  quill-driver  of  the  present  day,  with  his 
doubtful  position  and  small  gains.  Fame,  that  guerdon  of 
high  genius,  comes  quite  independent  of  Berkeley  Square, 
and  is  a  republican  institution.  Look  around  in  our  own 
day  among  the  holders  of  the  pen  :  begin  (without  naming 
names,  for  that  is  odious)  and  count  on  your  fingers  those 
whom  you  will  back  in  the  race  for  immortality.  How 
many  fingers  have  you  that  are  left  untold  ?  It  is  an  in- 
vidious question.     Alas  !  dear ,  and  dear  *  *,  and  dear 

t  tj  3'ou  who  think  you  are  safe,  there  is  futurity,  and 
limbo,  and  blackness  for  you,  beloved  friends !  Ct'as  ingens 
iterabimus  mqiior :  there's  no  use  denying  it,  or  shirking 
the  fact ;  in  we  must  go,  and  disappear  for  ever  and  ever. 

And  after  all,  what  is  this  Reputation,  the  cant  of  our 
trade,  the  goal  that  every  scribbling  penny-a-liner  demurely 
pretends  that  he  is  hunting  after  ?  Why  should  we  get  it  ? 
Why  can't  we  do  without  it  ?  We  only  fancy  we  want  it. 
When  people  say  of  such  and  such  a  man  who  is  dead,  "He 
neglected  his  talents ;  he  frittered  away  in  fugitive  publica- 
tions time  and  genius,  which  might  have  led  to  the  produc- 
tion of  a  great  work ; "  this  is  the  gist  of  Sir  Bulwer 
Lytton's  kind  and  affecting  biographical  notice  of  our  dear 
friend  and  comrade  Laman  Blanchard,  who  passed  away  so 
melancholily  last  year. 

I  don't  know  anything  more  dissatisfactory  and  absurd 
than  that  insane  test  of  friendship  which  has  been  set  up 
by  some  literary  men  — viz.  admiration  of  their  works.  Say 
that  this  picture  is  bad,  or  that  poem  poor,  or  that  article 
stupid,  and  there  are  certain  authors  and  artists  among  us 
who  set  you  down  as  an  enemy  forthwith,  or  look  upon  you 
as  2i  faux-frere.  What  is  there  in  common  with  the  friend 
and  his  work  of  art  ?  The  picture  or  article  once  done  and 
handed  over  to  the  public,  is  the  latter's  property,  not  the 
author's,  and  to  be  estimated  according  to  its  honest  value ; 
and  so,  and  without  malice,  1  question  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's 


LAMAN  BLAy CHARD.  59 

statement  about  Blanchard  —  viz.  that  he  would  have  been 
likely  to  produce  with  leisure,  aud  under  favorable  circum- 
stances, a  work  of  the  highest  class.  I  think  his  education 
aud  habits,  his  quick  easy  manner,  his  sparkling  hidden  fun, 
constant  tenderness,  and  brilliant  good-humor  were  best 
employed  as  they  were.  At  any  rate  he  had  a  duty,  much 
more  imperative  upon  him  than  the  preparation  of  ques- 
tionable great  works,  —  to  get  his  family  their  dinner.  A 
man  must  be  a  very  Great  man,  indeed,  before  he  can 
neglect  this  precaution. 

His  three  volumes  of  essays,  pleasant  and  often  brilliant 
as  they  are,  give  no  idea  of  the  powers  of  the  author,  or 
even  of  his  natural  manner,  which,  as  I  think,  was  a  thou- 
sand times  more  agreeable.  He  was  like  the  good  little 
child  in  the  fairy  tale,  his  mouth  dropped  out  all  sorts  of 
diamonds  and  rubies.  His  wit,  which  was  always  playing 
and  frisking  about  the  company,  had  the  wonderful  knack 
of  never  hurting  anybody.  He  had  the  most  singular  art 
of  discovering  good  qualities  in  people ;  in  discoursing  of 
which  the  kindly  little  fellow  used  to  glow  and  kindle  up, 
and  emi)hasize  with  the  most  charming  energy.  Good- 
natured  actions  of  others,  good  jokes,  favorite  verses  of 
friends,  he  would  bring  out  fondly,  whenever  they  met,  or 
there  was  question  of  them ;  and  he  used  to  toss  and 
dandle  their  sayings  or  doings  about,  and  hand  them  round 
to  the  company,  as  the  delightful  Miss  Slowboy  does  the 
baby  in  the  last  Christinas  book.  What  was  better  than 
wit  in  his  talk  was,  that  it  was  so  genial.  He  enjoyed 
thoroughl}^  and  chirped  over  his  wine  with  a  good-humor 
that  could  not  fail  to  be  infectious.  His  own  hospitality 
was  delightful :  there  was  something  about  it  charmingly 
brisk,  simple,  and  kindly.  How  he  used  to  laugh  !  As  I 
write  this,  what  a  number  of  pleasant  hearty  scenes  come 
back  !  One  can  hear  liis  jolly,  clear  laughter ;  and  see  his 
keen,  kind,  beaming  Jew  face,  —  a  mixture  of  Mendelssohn 
and  Voltaire. 

Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's  account  of  him  will  be  read  by  all 
his  friends  with  pleasure,  and  by  the  world  as  a  not  uncuri- 
ous  specimen  of  the  biography  of  a  literary  man.  The 
memoir  savors  a  little  too  much  of  the  funeral  oration.  It 
might  have  been  a  little  more  particular  and  familiar,  so  as 
to  give  the  public  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  one 
of  the  honestest  and  kindest  of  men  who  ever  lived  by 
pen ;  and  yet,  after  a  long  and  friendly  intercourse  with 


60       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Blanchard,  I  believe  the  praises  Sir  Lytton  bestows  on  his 
character  are  by  no  means  exaggerated:  it  is  only  the 
style  in  which  they  are  given,  which  is  a  little  too  funereally 
encomiastic.  The  memoir  begins  in  this  way,  a  pretty  and 
touching  design  of  Mr.  Kenny  Meadows  heading  the 
biograph}^ :  — 

"  To  most  of  those  who  have  mixed  generally  with  the  men  who, 
in  our  dav,  have  chosen  literature  as  their  profession,  the  name  of 
Laman  Bfanchard  brhigs  recollections  of  peculiar  tenderness  and  re- 
i^ret.  Amidst  a  career'which  the  keenness  of  anxious  rivalry  renders 
a  sharp  probation  to  the  temper  and  the  affections,  often  yet  more 
imbittered  by  that  strife  of  party,  of  which,  in  a  representative  Con- 
stitution, few  men  of  letters  escape  the  eagei-  passions  and  the  angry 
prejudice — they  recall  the  memory  of  a  competitor,  without  envy;  a 
partisan,  without  gall;  firm  as  the  firmest  in  the  maintenance  of  his 
own  opinions;  but  gentle  as  the  gentlest  in  the  judgment  he  passed 
on  others. 

"  Who,  among  our  London  brotherhood  of  letters,  does  not  miss 
that  simple  cheerfulness —  that  inborn  and  exquisite  urbanity  —  that 
childlike  readiness  to  be  pleased  with  all  — that  happy  tendency  to 
panegyrize  every  merit,  and  to  be  lenient  to  every  fault  ?  Who  does 
not  recall  that  acute  and  delicate  sensibility —  so  easily  wounded,  and 
therefore  so  careful  not  to  wound  —  which  seemed  to  infuse  a  certain 
intellectual  fine  breeding,  of  forbearance  and  sympathy,  into  every 
society  where  it  insinuated  its  gentle  way?  Who,  in  convivial  meet- 
ings, does  not  miss,  and  will  not  miss  forever,  the  sweetness  of  those 
unpretending  talents  —  the  earnestness  of  that  honesty  which  seemed 
unconscious  it  w^as  worn  so  lightly  — the  mild  influence  of  that 
exuberant  kindness  which  softened  the  acrimony  of  young  disputants, 
and  reconciled  the  secret  animosities  of  jealous  rivals  ?  Yet  few  men 
had  experienced  more  to  sour  them  than  Laman  Blanchard,  or  had 
gone  more  resolutely  through  the  author's  hardening  ordeal  of  narrow 
circumstance,  of  daily  labor,  and  of  that  disappointment  in  the  higher 
aims  of  ambition,  which  nuist  almost  inevitably  befall  those  who  re- 
tain ideal  standards  of  excellence,  to  be  reached  but  by  time  and 
leisure,  and  who  are  yet  condemned  to  draw^  hourly  upon  uinnatured 
resources  for  the  practical  wants  of  life.  To  have  been  engaged  from 
boyhood  in  such  struggles,  and  to  have  preserved,  undiminislied, 
generous  admiration  forthose  more  fortunate,  and  untiring  love  for 
his  own  noble  yet  thankless  calling;  and  this  with  a  constitution  sin- 
gularly finely  strung,  and  with  all  the  nervous  irritability  which 
usually  accompanies  the  indulgence  of  the  imagination;  is  a  proof  of 
the  rarest  kind  of  strength,  depending  less  upon  a  power  purely  in- 
tellectual, than  upon  the  higher  and  more  beautiful  heroism  which 
woman,  and  such  men  alone  as  have  the  best  feelings  of  a  woman's 
nature,  take  from  instinctive  enthusiasm  for  what  is  great,  and  uncal- 
culating  faith  in  what  is  good. 

"  It  is,  regarded  tluis,  that  the  character  of  Laman  Blanchard 
assumes  an  interest  of  a  very  elevated  order.  He  was  a  choice  and 
worthy  example  of  the  professional  English  men  of  letters,  in  our 
day.  He  is  not  to  be  considered  in  the  light  of  the  man  of  daring 
and  turbulent  genius,  living  on  the  false  excitement  of  vehement 
calumny  and  uproarious  praise.     His  was  a  career  not  indeed  obscure, 


LAMAN  BLAXCHARD.  61 

but  sufficiently  quiet  and  unnoticed  to  be  solaced  with  little  of  the 
pleasure  with  which,  in  aspirants  of  a  noisier  fame,  gratified  and  not 
ignoble  vanity  rewards  the  labor  and  stimulates  the  hope.  For  more 
tban  twenty  years  he  toiled  on  through  the  most  fatiguing  paths  of 
literary  composition,  mostly  in  periodicals,  often  anonymously;  pleas- 
ing and  lightly  instructing  thousands,  but  gaining  none  of  the  prizes, 
whether  of  weighty  reputation  or  popular  renown,  which  more  for- 
tunate chances,  or  more  pretending  modes  of  investing  talent,  have 
given  in  our  day  to  men  of  half  his  merits." 

Not  a  feature  in  this  charming  character  is  flattered,  as 
far  as  I  know.  Did  the  subject  of  the  memoir  feel  disap- 
pointment in  the  higher  aims  of  ambition  ?  Was  his 
career  not  solaced  with  pleasure  ?  Was  liis  noble  calling  a 
thankless  one  ?  I  have  said  before,  his  calling  was  not 
thankless  ;  his  career,  in  the  main,  pleasant ;  his  disap- 
pointment, if  he  had  one  of  the  higher  aims  of  ambition, 
one  that  might  not  uneasily  be  borne.  If  every  man  is 
disappointed  because  he  cannot  reach  supreme  excellence, 
what  a  mad  misanthropical  world  ours  would  be !  Why 
should  men  of  letters  aim  higher  than  they  can  hit,  or  be 
"disappointed"  with  the  share  of  brains  God  has  given 
them  ?  Nor  can  you  say  a  man's  career  is  unpleasant  who 
was  so  heartil}'  liked  and  appreciated  as  Blanchard  was, 
by  all  i)ersons  of  high  intellect,  or  low,  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact.  He  had  to  bear  with  some,  but  not  un- 
bearable poverty.  At  home  he  had  everything  to  satisfy 
liis  affection :  abroad,  every  sympathy  and  consideration 
met  this  universally  esteemed,  good  man.  Such  a  calling  as 
his  is  fiof  thankless,  surely.  Away  with  this  discontent  and 
morbid  craving  for  renown !  A  man  who  writes  (Tenny- 
son's) "  Ulysses,"  or  '•  Comus,"  inai/  put  in  his  claim  for 
fame  if  3-ou  will,  and  demand  and  deserve  it :  but  it  re- 
quires no  vast  power  of  intellect  to  write  most  sets  of 
words,  and  have  them  printed  in  a  book  :  —  To  write  this 
article  for  instance,  or  the  last  novel,  pamphlet,  book  of 
travels.  ^lost  men  with  a  decent  education  and  practice 
of  the  pen  could  go  and  do  the  like,  were  they  so  profes- 
sionally urged.  Let  such  fall  into  the  rank  and  file,  and 
shoulder  their  weapons,  and  load  and  fire  cheerfully.  An 
every-day  writer  has  no  more  right  to  repine  because  he 
loses  the  great  prizes,  and  can't  write  like  Shakespeare, 
than  he  has  to  be  envious  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  or  Welling- 
ton, or  King  Hudson,  or  Taglioni.  Because  the  sun  shines 
above,  is  a  man  to  warm  himself  and  admire  ;  or  to  despond 
because  he  can't  in  his  person  flare  up  like  the  sun  ?     I 


62        CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

don't  believe  that  Blanchard  was  by  any  means  an  amateur 
martyr,  but  was,  generally  speaking,  very  decently  satis- 
fied with  his  condition. 

Here  is  the  account  of  his  early  history  —  a  curious  and 


"  Sanuiel  Laman  Blanchard  was  born  of  respectable  parents  in  the 
middle  class  at  Great  Yarmouth,  on  the  15th  of  May,  1803.  His 
mother's  maiden  name  was  Mary  Laman.  She  married  first  Mr. 
Cowell,  at  St.  John's  Church,  Bermondsey,  about  the  year  1796;  he 
died  in  tlie  followhig  year.  In  1799,  she  was  married  again,  to 
Samuel  Blanchard,  by  whom  she  had  seven  children,  but  only  one 
son,  the  third  child,  christened  Samuel  Laman. 

"In  1805,  Mr.  Blanchard  (the  father)  appears  to  have  removed  to 
the  metropolis,  and  to  have  settled  in  Southwark  as  a  painter  and 
glazier.  He  was  enabled  to  give  his  boy  a  good  education  —  an  edu- 
cation, indeed,  of  that  kind  which  could  not  but  unfit  young  Laman 
for  the  calling  of  his  father;  for  it  developed  the  abilities  and  be- 
stowed the  learning,  which  may  be  said  to  lift  a  youth  morally  out  of 
trade,  and  to  refine  him  at  once  into  a  gentleman.  At  six  years  old 
he  was  entered  a  scholar  of  Saint  Olave's  School,  then  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Reverend  Doctor  Blenkorm.  He  became  the  head  Latin 
scholar,  and  gained  the  chief  prize  in  each  of  the  last  three  years  he 
remained  at  "the  academy.  When  he  left  it,  it  was  the  wish  of  the 
master  and  trustees  that  he  should  be  sent  to  College,  one  boy  being 
annually  selected  from  the  pupils,  to  be  maintained  at  the  University, 
for  the  freshman's  year,  free  of  expense;  for  the  charges  of  the  two 
remaining  years  the  parents  were  to  provide.  So  strong,  however, 
were  the  hopes  of  the  master  for  his  promising  pupil,  that  the 
trustees  of  the  school  consented  to  depart  from  their  ordinary  practice, 
and  offered  to  defray  the  collegiate  expenses  for  two  years.  Unfor- 
tunately, the  offer  was  not  accepted.  No  wonder  that  poor  Laman 
regretted  in  after  life  the  loss  of  this  golden  opportunity.  The  advan- 
tages of  a  University  career  to  a  young  man  in  his  position,  with 
talents  and  application,  but  without  interest,  birth,  and  fortune,  are 
incalculable.  The  pecuniary  independence  afforded  by  the  scholarship 
and  the  fellowship  is  in  itself  no  despicable  prospect;  but  the  benefits 
which  distinction,  fairly  won  at  those  noble  and  unrivalled  institutions, 
confers,  are  the  greatest  where  least  obvious:  they  tend  usually  to  bind 
the  vagueness  oi  youthful  ambition  to  the  secure  reliance  on  some 
professional  career,  in  which  they  smooth  the  difficulties  and  abridge 
the  novitiate.  Even  in  literature  a  College  education  not  only  tends 
to  refine  the  taste,  but  to  propitiate  the  public.  And  in  all  the  many 
walks  of  practical  and  public  life,  the  honors  gained  at  the  University 
never  fail  to  find  well-wishers  amongst  powerful  contemporaries,  and 
to  create  generous  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  aspirant. 

"  But  my  poor  friend  was  not  destined  to  have  one  obstacle 
smoothed  away  from  his  weary  path.*    With  the  natural  refinement 

*  "  The  elder  Blanchard  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  voluntarily  depriving 
his  son  of  the  advantages  proffered  by  the  liberal  trustees  of  Saint 
Olave's;  it  appears  from  a  communication  by  Mr.  Keymer  (  brother-in- 
law  to  Laman  Blancliard)  —  that  the  circumstances  of  the  family  at  that 
time  were  not  such  as  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses  of  a  student  —  even 
for  the  last  year  of  his  residence  at  the  University." 


LAMAN  BLANCHARD.  63 

of  his  disposition,  and  the  fatal  cultivation  of  his  intellectual  suscep- 
tibilities, he  was  placed  at  once  In  a  situation  wliich  it  was  impossible 
that  hi  could  fill  with  steadiness  and  zeal.  Fresh  from  classical 
studies,  and  his  emidation  warmed  by  early  praise  and  schoolboy 
triumph,  he  was  transferred  to  the  drudgery  of  a  desk  in  the  office  of 
Mr,  Charles  Pearson,  a  proctor  in  Doctors'  Commons,  The  result 
was  inevitable;  his  mind,  by  a  natural  reaction,  betook  itself  to  the 
pursuits  most  hostile  to  such  a  career.  Before  this,  even  from  the 
age  of  thirteen,  he  had  tritled  with  the  Muses;  he  now  conceived  in 
good  earnest  the  more  perilous  passion  for  the  stage. 

"Barry  Cornwall's  'Dramatic  Scenes'  were  published  about  this 
time  —  they  exercised  considerable  influence  over  the  taste  and  as- 
pirations of  yoimg  Blanchard —  and  many  dramatic  sketches  of  bril- 
liant promise,  bearing  his  initials,  S.  L.  B.,  appeared  in  a  periodical 
woik  existing  at  that  period  called  Tlie  Bramn.  In  them,  lliongh  the 
conception  and  general  treatment  are  borrowed  from  Barry  Cornwall, 
the  style  and  rhythm  are  rather  modelled  on  the  peculiarities  of 
Byron.  Their  piomise  is  not  the  less  for  the  imitation  they  betiay. 
The  very  characteristic  of  uenius  is  to  be  imitative —  first  of  authors, 
then  of  nature.  Books  lead  us  to  fancy  feelings  that  are  not  yet  gen- 
uine. Experience  is  necessary  to  record  those  which  color  oiu*  own 
existence:  and  the  style  only  becomes  original  in  proportion  as  the 
sentiment  it  expresses  is  sincere.  More  touching,  therefore,  than  these 
'  Dramatic  Sketches,'  was  a  lyrical  effusion  on  the  death  of  Sidney 
Ireland,  a  yoimg  friend  to  whom  he  was  warndy  attached,  and  over 
whose  memory,  for  years  afterwards,  he  often  shed  tears.  He  named 
his  eldest  son  after  that  early  friend.  At  this  period,  Mr.  Douglas 
Jerrold  had  written  three  volumes  of  Moral  Philosophy,  and  Mr. 
Buckstone,  the  celebrated  comedian,  volunteered  to  copy  the  work  for 
the  juvenile  moralist.  On  arriving  at  any  passage  that  struck  his 
fancy,  Mr.  Buckstone  communicateil  his  delight  to  his  friend  Blan- 
chard, and  the  enndation  thus  excited  tended  more  and  more  to  sharpen 
the  poet's  dista'^te  to  all  avocations  incompatible  with  literatin-e.  Anx- 
ious, in  the  first  instance,  to  escape  from  dependence  on  his  father 
(who  was  now  urgent  that  he  shoidd  leave  the  proctor's  desk  for  the 
still  more  ungt'uial  mechanism  of  the  paternal  trade),  he  meditated 
the  best  of  all  preparatives  to  dramatic  excellence;  viz.  a  practical 
acquaintance  with  the  stage  itself:  he  resolved  to  become  an  actor. 
Few  indeed  are  they  in  this  country  who  have  ever  succeeded  emi- 
nently in  the  literature  of  the  stage,  who  have  not  either  trod  its  boards, 
or  lived  habitually  in  its  atmosphere.  Blanchard  obtained  an  interview 
■with  Mr.  Henry  Johnston,  the  actor,  and  recited,  in  his  presence, 
passages  from  Glovers  '  Leonidas.'  He  read  admirably  —  his  elocution 
was  faultless  —  his  feeling  exquisite;  Mr.  Johnston  was  delighted 
with  his  powers,  but  he  had  experience  and  wisdom  to  cool  his  profes- 
sional enthusiasm,  and  he  earnestly  advised  the  aspirant  not  to  think 
of  the  stage.  He  drew  such  a  picture  of  the  hazards  of  success  —  the 
obstacles  to  a  position  — the  precariousness  even  of  a  subsistence,  that 
the  young  boy's  heart  sunk  within  him.  He  was  about  to  resign  him- 
self to  obscurity  and  trade,  when  he  suddenly  fell  iu  with  the  mana- 
ger of  the  Margate  Theatre;  this  gentleman  proposed  to  enroll  him  in 
his  own  troop,  and  the  proposal  was  eagerly  accepted,  in  spite  of  the 
■warnings  of  Mr.  Henry  Johnston.  '  A  week,'  says  Mr.  Buckstone 
(to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  these  particulars,  and  whose  words  I 
now  quote),  'was  sufficient  to  disgust  him  -with  the  beggary  and 


G4       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

drudgery  of  the  country  player's  life;  and  as  there  were  no  "Harlft. 
quins"  steaming  it  from  Margate  to  London  Bridge  at  that  day,  he 
performed  the  journey  back  on  foot,  having,  on  reaching  Rochester, 
but  his  last  shilling  —  the  poet's  veritable  last  shilling—  in  his  pocket. 

*' '  At  that  time  a  circumstance  occurred,  which  my  poor  friend's 
fate  has  naturally  brought  to  my  recollection.  He  came  to  me  late 
one  evening,  in  a  state  of  great  excitement;  informed  me  that  his 
father  had  Turned  him  out  of  doors;  that  he  was  utterly  hopeless  and 
wretched,  and  was  resolved  to  destroy  himself.  I  used  my  best  en- 
deavors to  console  him,  to  lead  his  thoughts  to  the  future,  and  hope 
in  what  chance  and  perseverance  might  effect  for  him.  Our  discourse 
took  a  livelier  turn;  and  after  making  up  a  bed  on  the  sofa  in  ray  own 
room,  I  retired  to  rest.  I  soon  slept  soundly,  but  was  awakened  by  hear- 
ing a  footstep  descending  the  stairs.  I  looked  towards  the  sofa,  and  dis- 
covered he  had  left  it;  I  heard  the  street  door  close;  I  instantly  hur- 
ried on  my  clothes,  and  followed  him;  I  called  to  him,  but  received 
no  answer;  I  ran  till  I  saw  him  in  the  distance  also  running;  I  again 
called  his  name;  I  implored  him  to  stop,  but  he  would  not  answer 
me.  Still  continuing  his  pace,  I  became  alarmed,  and  doubled  my 
speed.  I  came  up  with  him  near  to  Westminster  Bridge;  he  was 
hurrying  to  the  steps  leading  to  the  river;  I  seized  him;  he  threat- 
ened to  strike  me  if  I  did  not  release  him;  I  called  for  the  watch;  I 
entreated  him  to  return;  he  became  more  pacified,  but  still  seemed 
anxious  to  escape  from  me.  By  entreaties ;  by  every  means  of  per- 
suasion I  could  think  of;  by  threats  to  call  for  help,  I  succeeded  in 
taking  him  back.  The  next  day  he  was  more  composed,  but  I  believe 
rarely  resided  with  his  father  after  that  time.  Necessity  compelled 
him  to  do  something  for  a  livelihood,  and  in  time  he  became  a  reader 
in  the  office  of  the  Messrs.  Bayliss,  in  Fleet  Street.  By  that  employ, 
joined  to  frequent  contributions  to  the  Monthly  Magazine,  at  that 
time  published  by  them,  he  obtained  a  tolerable  competence. 

"  '  Blanchard  and  Jerrold  had  serious  thoughts  of  joining  Lord 
Byron  in  Greece;  they  were  to  become  warriors,  and  assist  the  poet 
in  the  liberation  of  the  classic  land.  Many  a  nightly  wandering  found 
them  discussing  their  project.  In  the  midst  of  one  of  these  discus- 
sions they  were  caught  in  a  shower  of  rain,  and  sought  shelter  under 
a  gateway.  The  rain  continued ;  when  their  patience  becoming  ex- 
hausted, Blanchard,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  exclaimed,  "Come  on, 
Jerrold!  what  use  shall  we  be  to  the  Greeks  if  we  stand  up  for  a 
shower  of  rain?"  So  they  walked  home  and  were  heroically  wet 
through.'  " 


It  would  have  been  worth  while  to  tell  this  tale  more 
fully  ;  not  to  envelop  the  chief  personage  in  fine  words,  as 
statuaries  do  their  sitters  in  Koman  togas,  and,  making 
them  assume  the  heroic-conventional  look,  take  away  from 
them  that  infinitely  more  interesting  one  which  Nature 
gave  them.  It  would  have  been  well  if  we  could  have 
had  this  stirring  little  story  in  detail.  The  young  fellow, 
forced  to  the  proctor's  desk,  quite  angry  with  the  drudgery, 
theatre-stricken,  poetry-stricken,  writing  dramatic  sketches 
in  Barry  Cornwall's  manner,  spouting  "  Leonidas ''  before  a 


LAMAX  BLANCHARD.  65 

manager,  driven  away  starving  from  home,  and,  penniless 
and  full  of  romance,  courting  his  beautiful  young  wife. 
"  Come  on,  Jerrohl!  what  use  shall  we  be  to  the  Greeks  If 
ice  stand  vp  for  a  shower  of  rain  ?  "  How  the  native  humor 
breaks  out  of  the  man !  Those  who  knew  them  can  fanc}" 
the  effect  of  such  a  pair  of  warriors  steering  the  Greek 
tire-ships,  or  manning  the  breach  at  Missolonghi.  Then 
there  comes  that  pathetic  little  outbreak  of  despair,  when 
the  poor  young  fellow  is  nearly  giving  up ;  his  father  ban- 
ishes him,  no  one  will  buy  his  poetr}-,  he  has  no  chance  on 
his  darling  theatre,  no  chance  of  the  wife  that  he  is  long- 
ing for.  AVhy  not  finish  with  life  at  once  ?  He  has  read 
"  Werther,"  and  can  understand  suicide.  ''None,"  he  says, 
in  a  sonnet,  — 

"  None,  not  the  hoariest  sage,  may  tell  of  all 
The  strong  heart  struggles  with  "before  it  fall."' 

If  Kespectability  wanted  to  point  a  moral,  isn't  there 
one  here  ?  Eschew  poetry,  avoid  the  theatre,  stick  to  your 
business,  do  not  read  German  novels,  do  not  marry  at 
twenty.  All  these  injunctions  seem  to  hang  naturally  on 
the  story. 

And  yet  the  young  poet  marries  at  twenty,  in  the  teeth 
of  poverty  and  experience ;  labors  away,  not  unsuccess- 
fully, puts  Pegasus  into  harness,  rises  in  social  rank  and 
public  estimation,  brings  up  happily  round  him  an  affec- 
tionate family,  gets  for  himself  a  circle  of  the  warmest 
friends,  and  thus  carries  on  for  twenty  years,  when  a  provi- 
dential calamity  visits  him  and  the  poor  wife,  almost  to- 
gether, and  removes  them  both. 

In  the  beginning  of  1844.  Mrs.  Blanchard,  his  affectionate 
wife  and  the  excellent  mother  of  his  children,  was  attacked 
with  paralysis,  which  impaired  her  mind  and  terminated 
fatally  at  the  end  of  the  year.  Her  husband  was  con- 
stantly with  her,  occupied  by  her  side,  whilst  watching  her 
distressing  malady,  in  his  daily  task  of  literary  business. 
Her  illness  had  "the  severest  effect  upon  him.  He,  too, 
was  attacked  with  partial  paralysis  and  congestion  of  the 
brain,  during  which  first  seizure  his  wife  died.  The  rest 
of  the  story  was  told  in  all  the  newspapers  of  the  begin- 
ning of  last  3'ear.  Eallying  partially  from  his  fever  at 
times,  a  sudden  catastrophe  overwhelmed  him.  On  the 
night  of  the  14th  February,  in  a  gust  of  delirium,  having 
his  little  boy  in  bed  by  his  side,  and  having  said  the  Lord's 


GG       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Prayer  but  a  short  time  before,  he  sprang  out  of  bed  in  the 
absence  of  his  nurse  (whom  he  had  besought  not  to  leave 
him),  and  made  away  with  himself  with  a  razor.  He  was 
no  more  guilty  in  his  death  than  a  man  who  is  murdered 
by  a  madman,  or  who  dies  of  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel. 
In  his  last  prayer  he  asked  to  be  forgiven,  as  he  jn  his 
whole  heart  forgave  others  ;  and  not  to  be  led  into  that 
irresistible  temptation  under  which  it  pleased  Heaven  that 
the  poor  wandering  spirit  should  succumb. 

At  the  very  moment  of  his  death  his  friends  were  mak- 
ing the  kindest  and  most  generous  exertions  in  his  behalf. 
Such  a  noble,  loving,  and  generous  creature  is  never  with- 
out such.  The  world,  it  is  pleasant  to  think,  is  always  a 
good  and  gentle  world  to  the  gentle  and  good,  and  reflects 
the  benevolence  with  which  they  regard  it  This  memoir 
contains  an  affecting  letter  from  the  poor  fellow  himself, 
which  indicates  Sir  Edward  Bulwer's  admirable  and  deli- 
cate generosity  towards  him.  "  I  bless  and  thank  you 
always,"  writes  the  kindly  and  affectionate  soul,  to  another 
excellent  friend,  Mr.  Forster.  There  were  other  friends, 
such  as  Mr.  Fonblanque,  Mr.  Ainsworth,  with  whom  he  was 
connected  in  literary  labor,  who  were  not  less  eager  to 
serve  and  befriend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead,  a  number  of  other  persons  came 
forward  to  provide  means  for  the  maintenance  of  his  orphan 
family,  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall  took  one  son  into  their 
publishing-house,  another  was  provided  for  in  a  merchant's 
house  in  the  City,  the  other  is  of  an  age  and  has  the  talents 
to  follow  and  succeed  in  his  father's  profession.  Mr.  Col- 
burn  and  Mr.  Ainsworth  gave  up  their  copyrights  of  his 
Essays,  which  are  now  printed  in  three  handsome  volumes, 
for  the  benefit  of  his  children. 

Out  of  Blanchard's  life  (except  from  the  melancholy  end, 
which  is  quite  apart  from  it)  there  is  surely  no  ground  for 
drawing  charges  against  the  public  of  neglecting  literature. 
His  career,  untimely  concluded,  is  in  the  main  a  successful 
one.  In  truth,  I  don't  see  how  the  aid  or  interposition  of 
Government  could  in  any  way  have  greatly  benefited  him. 
or  how  it  was  even  called  upon  to  do  so.  It  does  not  fol- 
low that  a  man  would  produce  a  great  work  even  if  he  had 
leisure.  Squire  Shakespeare  of  Stratford,  w4th  his  lands 
and  rents,  and  his  arms  over  his  porch,  was  not  the  working 
Shakespeare ;  and  indolence  (or  contemplation,  if  you  like) 
is  no  unusual  quality  in  the  literary  man.    Of  all  the  squires 


LAMAN   BLANCHARD.  67 

who  have  had  acres  and  rents,  all  the  holders  of  luck}' 
easy  Government  places,  how  many  have  written  books, 
and  of  what  worth  are  they  ?  There  are  some  persons 
■whom  Government,  having  a  want  of,  employs  and  pays  — 
barristers,  diplomatists,  soldiers,  and  the  like  ;  but  it  doesn't 
want  poetry,  and  can  do  without  tragedies.  Let  men  of 
letters  stand,  for  themselves.  Every  day  enlarges  their 
market,  and  multiplies  their  clients.  The  most  skilful  and 
successful  among  the  cultivators  of  light  literature  have 
such  a  hold  upon  the  public  feelings,  and  awaken  such  a 
sympathy,  as  men  of  the  class  never  enjoyed  uutil  now: 
men  of  science  and  learning,  who  aim  at  other  distinction, 
get  it;  and  in  spite  of  Dr.  Carus's  disgust,  I  believe  there 
was  never  a  time  when  so  much  of  the  practically  useful 
was  written  and  read,  and  every  branch  of  book-making 
pursued,  with  an  interest  so  eager. 

But  I  must  conclude.  My  letter  has  swelled  beyond  the 
proper  size  of  letters,  and  you  are  craving  for  news  :  have 
you  not  to-day's  Times''  battle  of  Ferozeshah  ?     Farewell. 

M.   A.   T. 


68       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART, 


ON   SOME   ILLUSTRATED   CHILDEEN'S   BOOKS. 

BY    MICHAEL    ANGELO    TITMARSH. 
[Fi'ase7'''s  Magazine,  April,  1846.] 

The  character  of  Gruff-and-Tackleton,  in  Mr.  Dickens's 
last  Christmas  story,  has  always  appeared  to  me  a  great  and 
painful  blot  upon  that  otherwise  charming  performance. 
Surely  it  is  impossible  that  a  man  whose  life  is  passed  in 
the  making  of  toys,  hoops,  whirligigs,  theatres,  dolls,  jack- 
in-boxes,  and  ingenious  knick-knacks  for  little  children, 
should  be  a  savage  at  heart,  a  child-hater  by  nature,  and  an 
ogre  by  disposition.  How  could  such  a  fellow  succeed  in 
his  trade  ?  The  practice  of  it  would  be  sufScient  to  break 
that  black  heart  of  his  outright.  Invention  to  such  a  per- 
son would  be  impossible  ;  and  the  continual  exercise  of  his 
profession,  the  making  of  toys  which  he  despised,  for  little 
beings  whom  he  hated,  would,  I  should  think,  become  so 
intolerable  to  a  Gruff-and-Tackleton,  that  he  would  be  sure 
to  fly  for  resource  to  the  first  skipping-rope  at  hand,  or  to 
run  himself  through  his  dura  ilia  with  a  tin  sabre.  The 
ruffian !  the  child-hating  Herod  !  a  squadron  of  rocking- 
horses  ought  to  trample  and  crush  such  a  fellow  into 
smaller  particles  of  flint.  I  declare  for  my  part  I  hate 
Gruff-and-Tackleton  worse  than  any  ogre  in  Mother  Bunch. 
Ogres  have  been  a  good  deal  maligned.  They  eat  children, 
it  is  true,  but  only  occasionally,  —  children  of  a  race  which 
is  hostile  to  their  Titanic  progeny ;  they  are  good  enough 
to  their  own  young.  Witness  the  ogre  in  Hopomythumb, 
who  gave  his  seven  daughters  seven  crowns,  the  which 
Hopomythumb  stole  for  his  brothers,  and  a  thousand  other 
instances  in  fairy  history.  This  is  parenthetic,  however. 
The  proposition  is,  that  makers  of  children's  toys  may 
have  their  errors,  it  is  true,  but  must  be,  in  the  main, 
honest  and  kindly-hearted  persons. 

I  wish  i\Irs.  Marcet,  the  Eight  Honorable  T.  B.  Macaulay. 
or  any  other  person  possessing  universal  knowledge,  would 
take  a  toy  and  child's  emporium   in  hand,  and  explain  to 


ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.       69 

us  all  the  geographical  and  historical  wonders  it  contains. 
That  Noah's  ark,  with  its  varied  contents, — its  leopards 
and  lions,  with  glued  pump-handled  tails ;  its  light-blue 
elephants  and  J.  footed  ducks  ;  that  ark  containing  the 
cylindrical  family  of  the  patriarch  was  fashioned  in  Hol- 
land, most  likely,  by  some  kind  pipe-smoking  friends  of 
youth,  by  the  side  of  a  slim}-  canal.  A  peasant,  in  a  Danu- 
bian  pine-wood,  carved  that  extraordinary  nut-cracker,  who 
was  painted  up  at  Nuremberg  afterwards  in  the  costume  of 
a  hideous  hussar.  That  little  fir  lion,  more  like  his  roar- 
ing original  than  the  lion  at  Barnet,  or  the  lion  of  North- 
umberland House,  was  cut  by  a  Swiss  shepherd  boy  tend- 
ing his  goats  on  a  mountain-side,  where  the  chamois  were 
jumping  about  in  their  untanned  leather.  I  have  seen  a 
little  Mahometan  on  the  Etmeidan  at  Constantinople,  twid- 
dling about  just  such  a  whirligig  as  you  may  behold  any  day 
in  the  hands  of  a  small  Parisian,  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens. 
And  as  with  the  toys  so  with  the  toy-books.  They  exist 
everywhere ;  there  is  no  calculating  the  distance  through 
which  the  stories  come  to  us,  the  number  of  languages 
through  which  they  have  filtered,  or  the  centuries  during 
which  they  have  been  told.  ^Many  of  them  have  been  nar- 
rated, almost  in  tlieir  present  shajie,  for  thousands  of  years 
since,  to  little  copper-colored  Sanscrit  children,  listening  to 
their  motlier  under  the  palm-trees  b}-  the  banks  of  the 
yellow  Jumna  —  their  Brahmin  mother,  who  softly  nar- 
rated them  through  the  ring  ir  her  nose.  The  very  same 
tale  has  been  heard  by  the  Northern  Vikings  as  they  lay 
on  their  shields  on  deck ;  and  by  the  Arabs,  couched  under 
the  stars  on  the  Syrian  plains  when  the  flocks  were  gath- 
ered in,  and  the  mares  were  picketed  by  the  tents.  With 
regard  to  the  story  of  Cinderella,  I  have  heard  the  late 
Thomas  Hill  say  that  he  remembered  to  have  heard,  two 
years  before  Bichard  Cceur  de  Lion  came  back  from  Pales- 
tine, a  Norman  jongleur  —  but,  in  a  word,  there  is  no  end 
to  the  antiquity  of  these  tales,  a  dissertation  on  which 
would  be  quite  needless  and  impossible  here. 

One  cannot  help  looking  with  a  secret  envy  on  the  chil- 
dren of  the  present  day,  for  whose  use  and  entertainment 
a  thousand  ingenious  and  beautiful  things  are  provided, 
which  were  quite  unknown  some  few  scores  of  years  since, 
when  the  present  writer  and  reader  were  very  possibly  in 
the  nursery  state.  Abominable  attempts  were  made  in 
those  days  to  make  useful  books  for  children,  and  cram 


70        CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

science  down  their  throats  as  calomel  used  to  be  admin- 
istered under  the  pretence  of  a  spoonful  of  currant  jelly. 
Such  picture-books  as  we  had  were  illustrated  with  the 
most  shameful,  hideous,  old  woodcuts  which  had  lasted 
through  a  century,  and  some  of  which  may  be  actually  seen 
lingering  about  still  as  head-pieces  to  the  Catnach  ballads, 
in  those  rare  corners  of  the  town  where  the  Catnach  ballads 
continue  to  be  visible.  Some  painted  pictures  there  were 
in  our  time  likewise,  but  almost  all  of  the  very  worst  kind ; 
the  hideous  distortions  of  Eowlandson,  who  peopled  the 
picture-books  with  bloated  parsons  in  periwigs,  tips}''  alder- 
men and  leering  salacious  nymphs,  horrid  to  look  at.  Tom 
and  Jerry  followed,  with  choice  scenes  from  the  Cockpit, 
the  Round  House,  and  Drury  Lane.  Atkins's  slang  sport- 
ing subjects  then  ensued,  of  which  the  upsetting  of  Char- 
leys' watch-boxes,  leaping  five-barred  gates,  fighting  duels 
with  amazing  long  pistols,  and  kissing  short-waisted  damsels 
in  pink  spencers,  formed  the  chief  fun.  The  first  real, 
kindly,  agreeable,  and  infinitely  amusing  and  charming 
illustrations  for  a  child's  book  in  England  which  I  know, 
were  those  of  the  patriarch  George  Cruikshank,  devised  for 
the  famous  German  pojiular  stories.  These  were  translated 
by  a  certain  magistrate  of  Bow  Street,  whom  the  Examiner 
is  continually  abusing,  but  whose  name  ought  always  to  be 
treated  tenderly  on  account  of  that  great  service  which  he 
did  to  the  nation.  Beauty,  fun,  and  fancy,  were  united,  in 
these  admirable  designs.  They  have  been  copied  all  over 
Europe.  From  the  day  of  their  appearance,  the  happiness  of 
children  may  be  said  to  have  increased  immeasurably.  After 
Cruikshank,  the  German  artists,  a  kindly  and  good-natured 
race,  with  the  organ  of  philoprogenitiveness  strongly  devel- 
oped, began  to  exert  their  wits  for  children.  Otto  Speckter, 
Neureuther,  the  Dusseldorf  school,  the  book-designers  at 
Leipzig  and  Berlin,  the  mystical  and  tender-hearted  Over- 
beck,  and  numberless  others,  have  contributed  to  the  pleas- 
ure and  instruction  of  their  little  countrymen.  In  France 
the  movement  has  not  been  so  remarkable.  The  designers 
in  the  last  twenty  years  have  multiplied  a  hundred-fold : 
their  talent  is  undeniable :  but  they  have  commonly  such 
an  unfortunate  penchant  for  what  is  wrong,  that  the  poor 
little  children  can  hardly  be  admitted  into  their  company. 
They  cannot  be  benefited  by  voluptuous  pictures  illustra- 
tive of  Balzac,  Beranger,  Manon-Lescaut,  and  the  lik& 
The  admirable  Charlet  confined  himself  to  war  and  bat- 


ox  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.     71 

tie,  and  les  gloires  cle  la  France  chiefly :  the  brilliant  de- 
signs of  Vernet  and  Eaft'et  are  likewise  almost  all  mili- 
tary. Gavarni,  the  wittiest  and  clevei-est  designer  that 
ever  lived  probably,  depicts  gr'isettes  Ste.  Pelagic,  hals- 
7nasquesy  and  other  subjects  of  town-life  and  intrigue, 
quite  unlit  for  children's  edification.  The  caustic  Gran- 
ville, that  Swift  of  the  pencil,  dealt  in  subjects  scarcely 
more  suited  to  children  than  the  foul  satires  of  the  wicked 
old  Cynic  of  St.  Patrick's,  whose  jokes  to  my  mind  are  like 
the  fun  of  a  demon;  and  whose  best  excuse  is  Swift's 
Hospital. 

In  England  the  race  of  designers  is  flourishing  and  in- 
creasing, and  the  art  as  applied  to  the  nursery  (and  where, 
if  you  please,  you  who  sneer,  has  our  affectionate  Mother 
Art  a  better  place  ?)  has  plenty  of  practitioners  and  pat- 
ronage. Perhaps  there  may  be  one  or  two  of  our  readers 
who  have  heard  of  an  obscure  publication  called  Punch,  a 
hebdomadal  miscellany,  filled  with  drawings  and  jokes, 
good  or  bad.  Of  the  artists  engaged  upon  this  unfortu- 
nate periodical,  the  chief  are  ]\Iessrs.  Leech  and  Doyle, 
both  persons,  I  would  wager,  remarkable  for  love  of  chil- 
dren, and  daily  giving  proofs  of  this  gentle  disi)Osition. 
Whenever  Mr.  Leech,  '•  in  the  course  of  his  professional 
career,"  has  occasion  to  depict  a  child  by  the  side  of 
a  bottle-nosed  alderman,  a  bow-waistcoated  John  Bull, 
a  policeman,  a  Brook-Green  Volunteer,  or  the  like,  his 
rough,  grotesque,  rollicking  pencil  becomes  gentle  all  of 
a  sudden,  he  at  once  falls  into  the  softest  and  tenderest 
of  moods,  and  dandles  and  caresses  the  infant  under  his 
hands,  as  I  have  seen  a  huge  whiskered  grenadier  do  in  St. 
James's  Park,  when  mayhap  (but  this  observation  goes  for 
nothing),  the  nursemaid  chances  to  be  pretty.  Look  at 
the  picture  of  the  Eton-boy  dining  with  his  father,  and 
saying,  "  Governor,  one  toast  before  we  go  —  the  ladies  ! " 
This  picture  is  so  pretty,  and  so  like,  that  it  is  a  positive 
fact,  and  every  father  of  an  Eton-boy  declares  it  to  be  the 
portrait  of  his  own  particular  offspring.  In  the  great  poem 
of  ''the  Brook-Green  Volunteer,"  cantos  of  which  are  issued 
weekly  from  the  Punch  press,  all  the  infantine  episodes, 
without  exception,  are  charming ;  and  the  volunteer's  wife 
such  a  delightful  hint  of  black-eyed  smiling  innocence  and 
prettiness,  as  shows  that  beauty  is  always  lying  in  the 
heart  of  this  humorist,  —  this  good  humorist,  as  he  as- 
suredly must  be.     As  for  Mr.  Doyle,  his  praises  have  been 


72        CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

sung  in  this  Magazine  already ;  and  his  pencil  every  day 
gives  far  better  proofs  of  his  genuine  relish  for  the  gro- 
tesque and  beautiful  than  any  that  can  be  produced  by  the 
pen  of  the  present  writer. 

The  real  heroes  of  this  article,  however,  who  are  at 
length  introduced  after  the  foregoing  preliminary  flourish, 
are,  Mr.  Joseph  Cundall,  of  12  Old  Bond  Street,  in  the 
city  of  Westminster,  publisher ;  Mr.  Felix  Summerly,  of 
tlie  Home  Treasury -office  ;  Mrs.  Harriet  Myrtle ;  Ambrose 
Merton,  Gent.,  the  editor  of  ''Gammer  Gorton's  Story- 
Books;"  the  writer  (or  writers)  of  the  "Good-natured 
Bear,"  the  "  Story-Book  of  Holiday  Hours,"  etc.,  and  the 
band  of  artists  who  have  illustrated  for  the  benefit  of 
youth  these  delightful  works  of  fiction.  Their  names  are 
Webster,  Towmshend,  Absolon,  Cope,  Horsley,  Eedgrave, 
H.  Corbould,  Franklin,  and  Frederick  Tayler,  —  names  all 
famous  in  art ;  nor  surely  could  artists  ever  be  more  amia- 
bly employed  than  in  exercising  their  genius  in  behalf  of 
young  people.  Fielding,  I  think,  mentions  with  praise  the 
name  of  Mr.  Newberry,  of  Saint  Paul's  Churchyard,  as  the 
provider  of  story-books  and  pictures  for  children  in  his 
day.  As  there  is  no  person  of  the  late  Mr.  Fielding's 
powers  writing  in  this  Magazine,  let  me  be  permitted, 
humbly,  to  move  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  meritorious  Mr. 
Joseph  Cundall. 

The  mere  sight  of  the  little  books  published  by  Mr. 
Cundall  —  of  which  some  thirty  now  lie  upon  my  table  — 
is  as  good  as  a  nosegay.  Their  actual  covers  are  as  brilliant 
as  a  bed  of  tulips,  and  blaze  with  emerald,  and  orange,  and 
cobalt,  and  gold,  and  crimson.  I  envy  the  feelings  of  the 
young  person  for  whom  (after  having  undergone  a  previous 
critical  examination)  this  collection  of  treasures  is  des- 
tined. Here  are  fairy  tales,  at  last,  with  real  pictures  to 
them.  What  a  library  !  —  what  a  picture-gallery !  Which 
to  take  up  first  is  the  puzzle.  I  can  fancy  that  perplexity 
and  terror  seizing  upon  the  small  individual  to  whom  all 
these  books  will  go  in  a  parcel,  when  the  string  is  cut,  and 
the  brown  paper  is  unfolded,  and  all  these  delights  appear. 
Let  us  take  out  one  at  hazard :  it  is  the  "  History  of  Tom 
Hickathrift  the  Conqueror." 

He  is  bound  in  blue  and  gold :  in  the  picture  Mr.  Fred- 
erick Tayler  has  represented  Tom  and  a  friend  slaughter- 
ing wild  beasts  with  prodigious  ferocity.  Who  was  Tom 
Hickathrift  the  Conqueror  ?     Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ? 


ox  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.     73 

Fielding  mentions  him  somewhere,  too  ;  but  his  history  has 
passed  away  out  of  the  nursery  annals,  and  this  is  the  first 
time  his  deeds  have  ever  come  under  my  cognizance.  Did 
Fielding  himself  write  the  book  ?  The  style  is  very  like 
that  of  the  author  of  Joseph  Andrews.  Tom  lived  in  the 
Isle  of  Ely  in  Cambridgeshire,  the  story  says,  in  the  reign 
of  William  the  Conqueror ;  his  father,  who  was  a  laborer, 
being  dead,  ''and  his  mother  being  tender  of  their  son, 
maintained  him  by  her  own  labor  as  well  as  she  could; 
but  all  his  delight  was  in  the  corner,  and  he  ate  as  much  at 
once  as  would  serve  six  ordinary  men.  At  ten  years  old 
he  was  six  feet  high  and  three  feet  thick ;  his  hand  was 
like  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  every  other  part  proportion- 
ate ;  but  his  great  strength  was  yet  unknown." 

The  idea  of  latent  strength  here  is  prodigious.  How 
strong  the  words  are,  and  vigorous  the  similes  !  His  hand 
was  like  a  shoulder  of  mutton.  He  was  six  feet  high,  and 
three  feet  thick :  all  his  delight  was  in  the  corner,  and  he 
ate  as  much  as  six  men.  A  man  six  feet  high  is  nothing, 
but  a  fellow  three  feet  thick  is  tremendous.  All  the 
images  heap  up  and  complete  the  idea  of  Thomas's 
strength.  His  gormandizing  indicates,  his  indolence  ex- 
aggerates, the  Herculean  form.  Tom  first  showed  his 
strength  by  innocently  taking  away  from  a  farmer,  who 
told  him  he  might  have  as  much  straw  as  he  could  carry,  a 
thousand  weight  of  straw.  Another  offering  him  and  tell- 
ing him  to  choose  a  stick  for  his  mother's  fire,  Thomas 
selected  a  large  tree,  and  went  off  with  it  over  his  shoul- 
der, while  a  cart  and  six  horses  were  tugging  at  a  smaller 
piece  of  timber  behind.  The  great  charm  of  his  adventures 
is,  that  tliey  are  told  with  that  gravity  and  simplicity 
which  only  belong  to  real  truth  :  — 

"Tom's  fame  being  spread,  no  one  durst  give  him  an 
angry  word.  At  last  a  brewer  at  Lynn,  who  wanted  a 
lusty  man  to  carry  beer  to  the  jNFarsh  and  to  Wisbeach, 
hearing  of  him,  came  to  hire  him ;  but  he  would  not  be 
hired,  till  his  friends  persuaded  him,  and  his  master  prom- 
ised him  a  new  suit  of  clothes  from  top  to  toe,  and  that  he 
should  eat  and  drink  of  the  best.  At  last  Tom  consented 
to  be  his  man,  and  the  master  showed  him  which  way  he 
was  to  go ;  for  there  was  a  monstrous  giant  kept  part  of 
the  Marsh,  and  none  dared  to  go  that  way,  for  if  the  giant 
found  them,  he  would  either  kill  or  make  them  his  servants. 

"  But  to  come  to  Tom  and  his  master.     Tom  did  more  in 


74       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

one  day  than  all  the  rest  of  his  men  did  in  three ;  so  that 
his  master,  seeing  him  so  tractable  and  careful  in  his  busi- 
ness, made  him  his  head  man,  and  trusted  him  to  carry 
beer  by  himself,  for  he  needed  none  to  help  him.  Thus 
he  went  each  day  to  Wisbeach,  a  journey  of  near  twenty 
miles. 

"  But  going  this  way  so  often,  and  finding  the  other  road 
that  the  giant  kept  was  nearer  lay  the  half,  Tom  having  in- 
creased his  strength  by  good  living,  and  improved  his  cour- 
age by  drinking  so  much  strong  ale,  resolved  one  day,  as 
he  was  going  to  AVisbeach,  without  saying  anything  to  his 
master,  or  to  his  fellow-servants,  to  take  the  nearest  road 
or  lose  his  life  ;  to  win  the  horse  or  lose  the  saddle ;  to  kill 
or  be  killed,  if  he  met  with  the  giant. 

"This  resolved,  he  goes  the  nearest  way  with  his  cart, 
flinging  open  the  gates  in  order  to  go  through  ;  but  the 
giant  soon  espied  him,  and  seeing  him  a  daring  fellow, 
vowed  to  stop  his  journey,  and  make  a  prize  of  his  beer  : 
but  Tom  cared  not  a  fig  for  him  ;  and  the  giant  met  him 
like  a  roaring  lion,  as  though  he  would  swallow  him  up. 

" '  Sirrah,'  said  he,  '  who  gave  you  authority  to  come  this 
way  ?  Do  you  not  know,  that  I  make  all  stand  in  fear  of 
me  ?  And  you,  like  an  impudent  rogue,  must  come  and 
fling  open  my  gate  at  pleasure  !  Are  you  so  careless  of 
your  life,  that  you  do  not  care  what  you  do  ?  I  will  make 
you  an  example  to  all  rogues  under  the  sun.  Dost  thou 
not  see  how  many  heads  of  those  that  have  offended  my 
laws  hang  upon  yonder  tree  ?  Thine  shall  hang  above 
them  all ! ' 

"'None  of  your  prating!'  said  Tom;  ^you  shall  not 
find  me  like  them.' 

"  '  No  ! '  said  the  giant. 

"  '  Why  you  are  but  a  fool,  if  you  come  to  fight  me,  and 
bring  no  weapon  to  defend  thyself  ! '  cries  Tom.  '  I  have 
got  a  weapon  here  shall  make  you  know  I  am  your  master.' 

"  '  Say  you  so,  sirrah  ?  '  said  the  giant ;  and  then  ran  to 
his  cave  to  fetch  his  club,  intending  to  dash  his  brains  out 
at  a  blow. 

"While  the  giant  was  gone  for  his  club,  Tom  turned  his 
cart  upside  down,  and  took  the  axletree  and  wheel  for  his 
sword  and  buckler ;  and  excellent  weapons  they  were,  on 
such  an  emergency. 

"  The  giant  coming  out  again  began  to  stare  at  Tom,  to 
see  him  take  the  wheel  in  one  of  his  hands,  and  the  axle- 
tree  in  the  other. 


ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.     7o 

"'Oh,  oh!'  said  the  giaot,  'you  are  like  to  do  great 
things  with  those  instruments  ;  I  have  a  twig  here  that  will 
beat  thee,  thy  axletree  and  wheel,  to  the  ground  I ' 

"  Xow  that  which  the  giant  called  a  twig,  was  as  thick  as 
a  7nill-post ;  and  with  this  the  giant  made  a  blow  at  him 
with  such  force,  as  made  his  wheel  crack.  Tom,  nothing 
daunted,  gave  him  as  brave  a  blow  on  the  side  of  the  head, 
which  made  him  reel  again. 

" '  What,'  said  Tom,  '  have  you  got  drunk  with  my  small- 
beer  already  ?  ' 

'•But  the  giant,  recovering,  made  many  hard  blows  at 
him,  which  Tom  kept  off  with  his  wheel,  so  that  he  re- 
ceived but  very  little  hurt. 

"In  the  mean  time,  Tom  plied  the  giant  so  well  with 
blows,  that  the  sweat  and  blood  ran  together  down  his  face, 
who,  being  almost  spent  with  fighting  so  long,  begged  Tom 
to  let  him  drink,  and  then  he  would  fight  him  again. 

"'No,  no,'  said  he,  'my  mother  did  not  teach  me  such 
wit;' and.  finding  the  giant  growing  weak,  he  redoubled 
his  blows,  till  he  brought  him  to  the  ground. 

"  The  giant,  finding  himself  overcome,  roared  hideously, 
and  begged  Tom  to  spare  his  life,  and  he  would  perform 
anything  he  should  desire — even  yield  himself  unto  him, 
and  be  his  servant. 

"But  Tom,  having  no  more  mercy  on  him  than  a  bear 
upon  a  dog,  laid  on  him  till  he  found  him  breathless,  and 
then  cut  otf  his  head ;  after  which  he  went  into  his  cave, 
and  there  found  great  store  of  gold  and  silver,  which  made 
his  heart  leap  for  joy." 

This  must  surely  be  Fielding :  the  battle  is  quite  like  the 
Fielding-Homer.  Tom,  "  having  increased  his  strength  by 
good  living,  and  improved  his  courage  by  drinking  strong 
ale,"  is  a  phrase  only  to  be  written  by  a  great  man.  It  in- 
dicates a  lazy  strength,  like  that  of  Tom  himself  in  the 
corner.  "  The  giant  roared  hideously,  but  Tom  had  no  more 
mercy  on  him  than  a  bear  upon  a  dog."  If  anybody  but 
Harry  Fielding  can  write  of  a  battle  in  this  way,  it  is  a 
pity  we  had  not  more  of  the  works  of  the  author.  He  says 
that  for  this  action.  Tom,  who  took  possession  of  the  giant's 
cave  and  all  his  gold  and  silver,  "  was  no  longer  called  plain 
Tom,  but  Mister  Hickathrift !  " 

With  the  aid  of  a  valorous  opponent,  who  was  a  tinker, 
and  who  being  conquered  in  battle  by  Tom  became  his  fast 
friend  ever  after.  Tom  overcame  10.000  disaffected,  who  had 


76        CRITICrSMS   IN  LITERATUliE   AND   ART. 

gathered  in  the  Isle  of  Ely  (they  must  have  been  10,000 
of  the  refugee  Saxons,  under  Hereward  the  Saxon,  who  fled 
from  the  tyranny  of  the  Conqueror,  and  are  mentioned  by 
Mr.  Wright  in  his  lately  published,  learned,  and  ingenious 
essays,  —  and,  indeed,  it  was  a  shame  that  one  of  the  Ger- 
man name  of  Hickathrift  should  attack  those  of  his  own 
flesh  and  blood) ;  but  for  this  anti-national  feat  Tom  was 
knighted,  and  henceforth  appeared  only  as  Sir  Thomas 
Hickathrift. 

"News  was  brought  to  the  king,  by  the  commons  of 
Kent,  that  a  very  dreadful  giant  was  landed  on  one  of  the 
islands,  and  had  brought  with  him  a  great  number  of  bears, 
and  also  young  lions,  with  a  dreadful  dragon,  upon  which 
he  always  rode ;  which  said  monster  and  other  ravenous 
beasts  had  much  frightened  all  the  inhabitants  of  the 
island.  And,  moreover,  they  said,  if  speedy  course  was 
not  taken  to  suppress  them,  they  would  destroy  the 
country. 

"  The  king,  hearing  of  this  relation,  was  a  little  startled ; 
yet  he  persuaded  them  to  return  home,  and  make  the  best 
defence  they  could  for  the  present,  assuring  them  that  he 
would  not  forget  them,  and  so  they  departed. 

"  The  king,  hearing  these  dreadful  tidings,  immediately 
sat  in  council,  to  consider  what  was  best  to  be  done. 

"  At  length,  Tom  Hickathrift  was  pitched  upon,  as  being 
a  bold,  stout  subject ;  for  which  reason  it  was  judged  best 
to  make  him  governor  of  that  island,  which  place  of  trust 
he  readily  accepted,  and  accordingly  went  down  with  his 
wife  and  family  to  take  possession  of  the  same,  attended 
by  a  hundred  and  odd  knights  and  gentlemen,  at  least. 

"  Sir  Thomas  had  not  been  there  many  days,  when,  look- 
ing out  of  his  own  window,  he  espied  this  giant  mounted 
on  a  dreadful  dragon,  and  on  his  shoulder  he  bore  a  club 
of  iron ;  he  had  but  one  eye,  which  was  in  the  middle  of 
his  forehead,  and  was  as  large  as  a  barber's  basin,  and 
seemed  like  flaming  fire ;  the  hair  of  his  head  hung  down 
like  snakes,  and  his  beard  like  rusty  wire. 

"  Lifting  up  his  eyes,  he  saw  Sir  Thomas,  who  was  re- 
viewing him  from  one  of  the  windows  of  the  castle.  The 
giant  then  began  to  knit  his  brow,  and  breathe  out  some 
threatening  word  to  the  governor,  —  who,  indeed,  was  a 
little  surprised  at  the  approach  of  such  a  monstrous  and 
ill-favored  brute. 

"  The  giant  finding  that  Tom  did  not  make  much  haste 


ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHLLDREN'S  BOOKS.     77 

to  get  down  to  him,  he  alighted  from  his  dragon,  and 
chained  him  to  an  oak-tree  ;  then  marched  to  the  castle, 
setting  his  broad  shoulders  against  the  corner  of  the  wall, 
as  if  he  intended  to  overthrow  the  whole  bulk  of  the  build- 
ing at  once.     Tom  perceiving  it,  said,  — 

'^ '  Is  this  the  game  you  would  be  at  ?  faith,  I  will  spoil 
your  sport,  for  I  have  a  delicate  tool  to  pick  your  tooth 
with.'  Then  taking  the  two-handed  sword  which  the  king 
gave  him,  and  flinging  open  the  gate,  he  there  found  the 
giant,  who,  by  an  unfortunate  slip  in  his  thrusting,  was 
fallen  all  along,  and  lay  not  able  to  help  himself. 

'''How  now,'  said  Tom,  'do  you  come  here  to  take  up 
your  lodging  ?  '  and  with  that,  he  ran  his  long  sword  be- 
tween the  giant's  shoulders,  which  made  the  brute  groan  as 
loud  as  thunder. 

"Then  Sir  Thomas  pulled  out  his  sword  again,  and  at  six 
or  seven  blows  smote  off  his  head ;  and  then  turning  to  the 
dragon,  which  was  all  this  while  chained  to  the  tree,  with- 
out any  further  words,  but  with  four  or  five  blows,  cut  off 
the  head  of  that  also." 

Once  and  again  this  must  be  Harry  Fielding.  The  words 
of  the  narrative  are  of  immense  strength  and  simplicity. 
When  Tom  runs  his  long  sword  through  the  giant,  it  only 
"makes  the  brute  groan  as  loud  as  thunder."  An  inferior 
hand  would  have  spoiled  all  by  trying  a  dying  speech.  One 
recognizes  Fielding's  cudgel-style  by  the  force  and  simplicity 
of  the  blow  ;  and  the  greatness  of  Hickathrift  is  only  in- 
creased by  the  conclusion  of  his  history.  He  is  left  singing 
a  song  at  a  very  noble  and  splendid  feast,  to  which  he 
invited  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  when  he  made 
them  the  following  promise  :  — 

**  My  friends,  while  I  have  strength  to  stand, 
Most  manfully  1  will  pursue 
All  dangers  till  I  clear  the  land 
Of  lions,  bears,  and  tigers  too." 

And  that  is  all.  How  fine  the  conclusion  is  !  The  enor- 
mous champion  does  not  die,  but  lapses  into  silence.  He 
may  be  alive  3'et  somewhere  in  the  fens  drinking  mutely. 
A  health  to  him  !  The  day  was  a  good  day  which  brought 
the  acquaintance  of  Tom  Hickathrift. 

Patient  Grissell  and  the  babes  in  the  wood  are  dressed  by 
Mr.  Cundall  in  scarlet  and  gold  —  attired  in  glorious  rai- 


78       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

ment  after  their  death  and  sufferings  as  a  reward  for 
martyrdom  in  life.  As  for  Grissell,  I  have  always  had  my 
opinion  about  her.  She  is  so  intolerably  patient  as  to 
provoke  any  husband,  and  owed  a  great  deal  of  her  ill- 
treatment  to  the  shameful  meekness  with  which  she  bore 
it.  But  the  babes  in  the  wood  must  awaken  the  sympathy 
of  any  but  an  ogre,  and  every  man,  woman,  or  child  who 
has  a  heart  for  poetry  must  feel  himself  stirred  by  the  lines 
which  tell  their  sad  story  :  — 

"  He  took  the  children  by  the  haud, 

Tears  standing  in  their  eye, 
And  bade  them  straightway  follow  him  ; 

And  look,  they  did"  not  cry. 
And  two  long  miles  lie  led  them  on, 

AVhile  they  for  food  complain. 
'  Stay  here,'  quoth  he,  '  I'll  bring  you  bread 

When  I  come  back  again.' 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 

Went  wandering  np  and  down, 
But  never  more  could  see  the  man 

Approaching  from  the  town. 
Their  pretty  lips  with  blackberries 

Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed, 
And  when  they  saw  the  darksome  night 

They  sat  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  poor  innocents 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief  ; 
In  one  another's  arms  they  died, 

As  wanting  due  relief. 
No  burial  this  pretty  pair 

Of  any  man  receives. 
Till  Robin  Redbreast  piously 

Did  cover  them  w^ith  leaves." 

Sweet  little  martyrs !  Poetry  contains  nothing  more 
touching  than  their  legend.  They  have  lain  for  hundreds 
of  years  embalmed  in  it.  Time  has  not  spoiled  the  smile 
of  their  sweet  faces,  nestling  cheek  by  cheek  under  the 
yellow  leaves.  Robins  have  become  sacred  birds  for  the 
good  deed  they  did.  They  will  be  allowed  to  sing  in  Para- 
dise for  that. 

"  Bevis  of  Hampton,"  that  famous  knight,  is  not  a  warrior 
much  to  the  taste  of  the  present  times.  He  kills  a  great 
deal  too  much,  and  without  any  sense  of  humor  and  with- 
out inspiring  any  awe ;  but  ''  Guy  of  Warwick  "  is  a  true 


ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.     79 

knight.  After  the  steward's  son  has  done  great  deeds,  and 
by  his  valor  and  virtue  has  won  the  hand  of  fair  Felice,  and 
with  it  her  father's  title  of  Earl  of  Warwick,  the  famous 
warrior  is  smitten  with  a  sense  of  the  vanity  of  all  earthly 
things,  even  of  married  love  and  of  fair  Felice,  who  consents, 
like  a  pious  soul  as  she  is,  that  he  should  take  the  cross  and 
go  to  Palestine. 

"  While  Guy  was  in  this  repenting  solitude,"  the  legend 
says,  "fair  Felice,  like  a  mourning  widow,  clothed  herself 
in  sable  attire,  and  vowed  chastity  in  the  absence  of  her 
beloved  husband.  Her  whole  delight  was  in  divine  medita- 
tions and  heavenly  consolations,  praying  for  the  welfare  of 
her  beloved  Lord  Guy.  And,  to  show  her  humility,  she 
sold  all  her  jewels  and  costly  robes,  and  gave  the  money  to 
the  poor." 

Years  and  years  after  her  lord  was  gone,  there  used  to 
come  for  alms  to  her  castle-gate  an  old  pilgrim,  whom  the 
fair  Felice  relieved  with  hundreds  of  other  poor.  At  last, 
this  old  hermit,  feeling  his  death  drawing  nigh,  took  a  ring 
from  his  hand  and  sent  it  to  fair  Felice,  and  she  knew  by 
that  token  it  was  her  lord  and  husband,  and  hastened  to 
him.  And  Guy  soon  after  died  in  the  arms  of  his  beloved 
Felice,  who,  having  survived  him  only  tifteen  days,  was 
buried  in  the  same  grave.  So  ends  the  story  of  Guy,  the 
bold  baron  of  price,  and  of  the  fair  maid  Felice.  A  worthy 
legend.  His  bones  are  dust,  and  his  sword  is  rust,  and  his 
soul  is  with  the  saints,  1  trust.  Mr.  Tayler  supplies  two 
noble  illustrations  to  Sir  Bevis  and  Sir  Guy. 

We  must  pass  over  the  rest  of  the  Gammer  Gurton  library 
with  a  brief  commendation.  The  ballads  and  stories  are  good, 
the  pictures  are  good,  the  type  is  good,  the  covers  are  fine ;  and 
the  price  is  small.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  -'  Home- 
Treasury,"  edited  by  the  benevolent  Felix  Summerly.  This 
'•Home-Treasury"  contains  a  deal  of  pleasant  reading  and 
delightful  pictures.  The  fairy  tales  are  skilfully  recast, 
and  charmingly  illustrated  with  colored  prints  (perhaps  all 
prints  for  children  ought  to  have  pretty  colors,  by  the  way) 
by  some  of  the  good-natured  artists  before  mentioned.  The 
delightful  drawings  for  Little  Eed  Kiding-hood  are  supplied 
by  ^Ir.  Webster.  Mr.  Townshend  nobly  illustrates  Jack 
and  the  Bean-Stalk  ;  while  the  pretty  love-tale  of  Beast  and 
the  Beauty  is  delineated  by  Mr.  Eedgrave.  In  the  book  of 
"  Fairy  Tales  and  Ballads  "  Cope,  Redgrave,  and  Tayler  vie 
with  each  other  which  shall  most  show  skill  and  recreate 


80        CRiriCISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

3' outh.  For  the  "  Story-Books  of  the  Seasons  "  and  ''  Mrs. 
Harriet-Myrtle  Series  "  Mr.  Absolon  has  supplied  a  pro- 
fusion of  designs,  which  are  all,  without  exception,  charm- 
ing. The  organ  of  love  of  children  as  developed  on  that 
gentleman's  cranium  must  be  something  prodigious,  and  the 
bump  of  benevolence  quite  a  mountain.  Blessed  is  he 
whose  hat  is  enlarged  by  them  ! 

Let  a  word  be  said,  in  conclusion,  regarding  the  admirable 
story  of  the  Good-natured  Bear,  one  of  the  wittiest,  pleas- 
antest,  and  kindest  of  books  that  I  have  read  for  many  a 
long  day.  Witness  this  extract,  which  contains  the  com- 
mencement of  the  bear's  autobiography  :  — 

" '  I  am  a  native  of  Poland,  and  was  born  in  one  of  the 
largest  and  most  comfortable  caves  in  the  forest  of  Towski- 
pouski.  My  father  and  mother  were  greatly  respected  by 
all  the  inhabitants  of  the  forest,  and  were,  in  fact,  regarded, 
not  only  by  all  their  own  species,  but  by  every  other  animal, 
as  persons  of  some  consequence.  I  do  not  mention  this 
little  circumstance  from  any  pride,  but  only  out  of  filial 
affection  for  their  memory. 

"  '  My  father  was  a  man  of  a  proud  and  resentful  —  my 
father,  I  meant  to  say,  was  a  person  of  a  proud  and  resent- 
ful disposition,  though  of  the  greatest  courage  and  honor ; 
but  my  mother  was  one  in  whom  all  the  qualities  of  the 
fairer,  or  at  least,  the  softer  sex,  were  united.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  patience,  the  gentleness,  the  skill,  and  the  firm- 
ness with  which  she  first  taught  me  to  walk  alone.  I  mean 
to  walk  on  all  fours,  of  course  ;  the  upright  manner  of  my 
present  walking  was  only  learned  afterwards.  As  this 
infant  effort,  however,  is  one  of  my  very  earliest  recollec- 
tions, I  have  mentioned  it  before  all  the  rest,  and  if  you 
please,  I  will  give  you  a  little  account  of  it.' 

"  '  Oh  !  do,  Mr.  Bear,'  cried  Gretchen ;  and  no  sooner  had 
she  uttered  the  words,  than  all  the  children  cried  out  at  the 
same  time,  '  Oh  !  please  do,  sir  ! '  The  bear  took  several  long 
whiffs  at  his  pipe,  and  thus  continued  :  — 

"  '  My  mother  took  me  to  a  retired  part  of  the  forest, 
where  few  animals  ever  came ;  and  telling  me  that  I  must 
now  stand  alone,  extended  both  paws,  and  slowly  lowered 
me  towards  the  earth.  The  height,  as  I  looked  down, 
seemed  terrible,  and  I  felt  my  legs  kick  in  the  air  with  fear 
of,  I  did  not  know  what,  till  suddenly  I  felt  four  hard  things, 
and  no  motion.  It  was  the  fixed  earth  beneath  my  four 
infant  legs.     "]S"ow,"  said  my  mother,  "you  are  what  is 


ON  SOME  ILLUSTRATED  CHILDREN'S  BOOKS.     81 

called  standing  alone  !  '*  But  what  she  said  I  heard  as  in  a 
dream.  "With  my  back  in  the  air,  as  though  it  rested  on  a 
wooden  trestle,  with  my  nose  poking  out  straight,  snuffing 
the  fresh  breeze,  and  the  many  scents  of  the  woods,  my  ears 
pricking  and  shooting  with  all  sorts  of  new  sounds,  to  won- 
der at,  to  want  to  have,  to  love,  or  to  tumble  down  at,  — 
and  my  eyes  staring  before  me  full  of  light,  and  confused 
gold,  and  dancing  things,  I  seemed  to  be  in  a  condition  over 
which  I  had  no  power  to  effect  the  least  change,  and  in 
which  I  must  remain  fixed  until  some  wonderful  thing  hap- 
pened. But  the  firm  voice  of  my  mother  came  to  my 
assistance,  and  I  heard  her  tell  me  to  look  upon  the  earth 
beneath  me,  and  see  where  I  was.  First  I  looked  up  among 
the  boughs,  then  sideways  at  my  shoulder,  then  I  squinted  at 
the  tip  of  my  nose  —  all  by  mistake  and  innocence  —  at 
last,  I  bent  my  nose  in  despair,  and  saw  my  fore-paws 
standing,  and  this  of  course  was  right.  The  first  thing  that 
caught  my  attention,  being  the  first  thing  I  saw  distinctly, 
was  a  little  blue  flower  with  a  bright  jewel  in  the  middle, 
which  I  afterwards  found  was  a  drop  of  dew.  Sometimes  I 
thought  this  little  blue  darling  was  so  close  that  it  almost 
touched  my  eyes,  and  certainly  the  odor  of  it  was  up  in  my 
head ;  sometimes  I  thought  it  was  deep  down,  a  long  way 
off.  When  I  bent  my  face  towards  it  to  give  it  a  kiss,  it 
seemed  just  wliere  it  was,  thougli  I  had  not  done  what  I  had 
thought  to  do. 

'' '  Tlie  next  thing  I  saw  upon  the  ground  was  a  soft-look- 
ing little  creature,  that  crawled  along  with  a  round  ball 
upon  the  middle  of  its  back,  of  a  beautiful  white  color,  with 
brown  and  red  curling  stripes.  The  creature  moved  ver}', 
very  slowly,  and  appeared  always  to  follow  the  opinion  and 
advice  of  two  long  liorns  on  its  head,  that  went  feeling 
about  on  all  sides.  Presently  it  slowly  approached  my 
right  fore-paw,  and  T  wondered  how  I  should  feel,  or  smell, 
or  hear  it,  as  it  went  over  my  toes  ;  but  the  instant  one  of 
the  horns  touched  the  hair  of  my  paw  both  horns  shrunk 
into  nothing,  and  presently  came  out  again,  and  the  crea- 
ture slowly  moved  av;ay  in  another  direction.  While  I  was 
wondering  at  this  strange  proceeding  —  for  I  never  thought 
of  hurting  the  creature,  not  knowing  how  to  hurt  anything, 
and  what  should  have  made  the  horn  f anc}'  otherwise  ?  — 
while,  then,  I  was  wondering  at  this,  my  attention  was  sud- 
denly drawn  to  a  tuft  of  moss  on  my  right  near  a  hollow 
tree  trunk.  Out  of  this  green  tuft  looked  a  pair  of  very 
bright,  round,  small  eyes,  which  were  staring  up  at  me. 


S2       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

" '  If  I  had  known  how  to  -walk,  I  should  have  stepped 
back  a  few  steps  Avhen  I  saw  those  bright  little  eyes,  but  I 
never  ventured  to  lift  a  paw  from  the  earth,  since  my 
mother  had  first  set  me  down,  nor  did  I  know  how  to  do 
so,  or  what  were  the  proper  thoughts  or  motions  to  begin 
with.  So  I  stood  looking  at  the  eyes  ;  and  presently  I  saw 
that  the  head  was  yellow,  and  all  the  face  and  throat  yel- 
low, and  that  it  had  a  large  mouth.  ''What  you  have  just 
seen,"  said  my  mother,  "  we  call  a  snail ;  and  what  you  now 
see  is  a  frog."  The  names,  however,  did  not  help  me  at  all 
to  understand.  Why  the  first  should  have  turned  from  my 
paw  so  suddenly,  and  why  this  creature  should  continue  to 
stare  up  at  me  in  such  a  manner,  I  could  not  conceive.  I 
expected,  however,  that  it  would  soon  come  slowly  crawling 
forth,  and  then  I  should  see  whether  it  would  also  avoid 
me  in  the  same  manner.  I  now  observed  that  its  body  and 
breast  were  double  somehow,  and  that  its  paws  were  very 
large  for  its  size,  but  had  no  hair  upon  them,  which  I 
thought  was  probably  occasioned  by  its  slow  crawling  hav- 
ing rubbed  it  all  off.  I  had  scarcely  made  these  observa- 
tions and  reflections,  when  a  beam  of  bright  light  breaking 
through  the  trees,  the  creature  suddenly  gave  a  great  hop 
right  up  under  my  nose,  and  I,  thinking  the  world  was 
at  an  end,  instantly  fell  flat  down  on  one  side,  and  lay  there 
waiting ! ' " 

Those  who  wish  to  know  more  about  him,  and  to  see  Mr. 
Tayler's  admirable  likenesses  of  him,  must  buy  the  book 
for  themselves.  For  it  must  be  kept  away  from  its  right 
owners  no  longer,  and  must  be  consigned  to  brown  paper 
and  bound  up  with  twine  along  with  its  beautiful  comrades, 
never  to  see  the  light  again  until  the  packet  opens  under 
the  astonished  eyes  of  A.  H.  T. 

M.    A.    TiTMARSH. 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMA^S  BOOKS.     83 


A  GRUMBLE   ABOUT   THE   CHRISTMAS   BOOKS. 

BY    MICHAEL    AXGELO    TITMARSH. 
[B'raser^s  Mar/azine,  January,  1847.] 

M[/  dear  Mr.  Yorke,  —  When,  in  an  unguarded  moment, 
I  complied  with  your  request  to  look  through  the  Christ- 
mas books  of  the  season  and  report  progress  upon  that  new 
branch  of  English  literature,  we  had  both  the  idea  that  the 
occupation  would  be  exceedingly  easy,  jovial  and  pleasant ; 
that  we  should  be  able  to  make  an  agreeable  lecture  upon 
an  amusing  subject;  that  critics,  authors,  and  readers, 
would  be  brought  together  in  the  most  enticing  and  amia- 
ble manner  possible ;  and  we  should  hnish  off  an  article 
with  kind  hearts,  friendly  greetings,  merry  Christmas,  and 
that  sort  of  things,  —  a  perfect  prize  paper,  streaky  with 
benevolence,  and  larded  with  the  most  unctuous  human 
kindness,  with  an  appropriate  bit  of  holly  placed  in  its 
hinder  quarter. 

Sir,  we  have  both  of  us  made  a  most  dismal  mistake. 
Had  it  been  strong  meat  which  you  set  before  me  for  a 
Christmas  feast,  the  above  metaphor  (which  I  took  from 
Mr.  Slater's  shop  at  Kensington)  might  have  applied.  Beef 
might  have  invigorated  the  critic;  but,  ah,  sir!  what  is  that 
wretch  to  do  who  tinds  himself  surfeited  with  mince-pies  ? 
I  have  read  Christmas  books  until  I  have  reached  a  state  of 
mind  the  most  deplorable.  '•'  Curses  on  all  fairies  !  "  I  gasp 
out ;  "  I  will  never  swallow  another  one  as  long  as  I  live  ! 
Perdition  seize  all  Benevolence !  Be  hanged  to  the  Good 
and  the  True  !  Fling  me  every  drop  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  out  of  the  window  I  —  horrible,  curdling  slops, 
away  with  them  !  Kick  old  Father  Christmas  out  of  doors, 
the  abominable  old  impostor!  Xext  year  I'll  go  to  the 
Turks,  the  Scotch,  or  other  Heathen  who  don't  keep  Christ- 
mas. Is  all  the  street  to  come  for  a  Christmas  box  ?  Are 
the  waits  to  be  invading  us  by  millions,  and  yelling  all 
night  ?  By  my  soul,  if  anybody  offers  me  plum  pudding 
again  this  season,  I'll  fling  it  in  his  face  ! '' 


84       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART: 

The  fair  writer  of  one  of  these  volumes,  "  A  Christmas  in 
the  Seventeenth  Century "  (I  may  have  read  something 
very  like  this  tale  in  Vandevelde's  novels,  but  it  is  a  pretty 
story,  and  just  as  good  for  little  dears  as  if  it  were  quite 
new),  mentions  in  the  preface  the  rueful  appearance  of  a 
Parisian  friend  of  hers  at  Christmas,  who  was  buying  bon- 
bons as  if  he  was  doing  penance,  and  cursed  the  odious  cus- 
tom of  t\\Q  jour  de  Z'(x?^  which  compelled  him  to  spend  a 
great  part  of  his  quarter's  allowance  in  sugar-plums,  to  be 
presented  to  his  acquaintance.  The  French  gentleman  was 
right :  the  sugar-plum  system  in  France  has  become  a  nui- 
sance, and  in  Protestant  England  the  Christmas-book  system 
is  bidding  fair  to  be  another.  Sir,  it  was  wisely  regulated 
that  Christmas  should  come  only  once  a  year,  but  that  does 
not  mean  that  it  is  to  stay  all  the  year  round.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  any  man  could  read  through  all  these  books  and 
retain  his  senses  ?  I  have  swallowed  eight  or  nine  out  of 
the  five  and  twenty  or  thirty  volumes.  I  am  in  a  pitiable 
condition.     I  speak  with  difficulty  out  of  my  fulness. 

"  Miss  Smith,  my  love,  what  is  our  first  Christmas  pie  ? 
That  in  the  green  and  gold  dish,  if  you  please." 

Miss  Smith.  —  "  The  dish  is  Mrs.  Gore's,  the  plates  are 
Mr.  Cruikshank's,  and  very  pretty  plates  they  are.  He, 
he,  he ! " 

M.  A.  T.  —  "No  trifling,  madam,  if  you  please.  Eead 
on.'' 

Miss  Smith  reads  as  follows  :  — 

"  '  Can  you  read,  my  boy  ?  and  are  you  sharp  enough  to 
undertake  errands  ? '  said  a  young  officer  of  the  Guards,  on 
whose  well-fitting  uniform  little  George  had  fixed  a  wistful 
eye,  one  summer  morning  at  the  corner  of  St.  James's 
Street,  as  he  was  lounging  near  Sam's  shop,  on  pretence  of 
looking  at  the  engravings  of  a  fashionable  annual. 

" '  I  can  read,  sir,'  replied  the  boy,  longing  to  add,  ^  and 
if  you  will  employ  me  for  a  message,  I  will  do  my  best  to 
give  you  satisfaction,'  for  the  handsome  countenance  of  the 
young  officer  captivated  his  fancy.  But  the  often  repeated 
injunction  of  his  grandmother,  that,  betide  what  might,  he 
was  never  to  derogate  from  the  habits  of  life  of  a  gentle- 
man's son,  forbade  his  endeavoring  to  earn  a  shilling,  a 
coin  that  rarely  found  its  way  into  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  '  You  have  an  honest  face  of  3^our  own,'  added  the  offi- 
cer, after  casting  a  hasty  glance  around,  to  ascertain  that 
no  one  was  at  hand  to  overhear  or  notice  their  colloquy. 


A   GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     85 

•  Do  you  think  you  could  make  out  Belgrave  Street,  Bel- 
grave  Square  ? ' 

"  '  To  be  sure  I  could,  sir.' 

" '  In  that  case,  my  lad,  here's  half  a  crown  for  you,  to 
make  the  best  of  your  way  to  number  seven,  where  you 
will  leave  this  letter,"  continued  he,  placing  one  in  his  hand ; 
'  and,  remember,  sliould  any  questions  be  asked  by  the  ser- 
vants, you  are  to  say  that  it  was  given  you  by  a  lady  you 
never  saw  before,  and  of  Avhom  you  don't  know  the  name.' 

"  ^  If  I'm  to  say  that,  sir,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  oblige  you,' 
replied  the  child,  returning  the  money  and  the  letter;  'and, 
at  all  events,  I  should  not  have  accepted  the  half-crown.  I 
am  not  an  errand  l)oy,  sir ;  I  am  a  gentleman's  son  ! ' 

"'You  are  a  confounded  little  ass,  I  suspect,'  returned 
the  officer,  nettled  and  surprised.  '  What  on  earth  can  it 
sic^nify  whether  you  receive  the  letter  from  a  gentleman  or 
lady  ?  ' 

"  '  Not  the  least,  sir.  It  signifies  only  that  I  should  not 
say  the  one,  when  the  other  is  the  case.  But  I  will  under- 
take to  carry  your  letter  safe  and  speedily,  and  give  no 
explanations  at  all,  however  much  questioned,  if  that  would 
suit  you.' 

"  '  I  fancy  I  can  trust  you,  my  lad,'  replied  the  officer, 
more  and  more  surprised  by  the  tone  and  bearing  of  the 
child.  '  But  I  should  be  glad  to  learn,  on  your  return,  how 
you  have  prospered  in  your  errand.' 

" '  You  are  on  guard,  I  think,  sir  ! '  said  George,  glancing 
at  his  gay  accoutrements.  '  I  shall  be  in  Belgrave  Street 
and  back  in  less  than  twenty  minutes.  You  can  manage, 
perhaps,  to  remain  hereabouts  till  then?' 

"  And  the  appointment  once  made,  George  did  not  allow 
the  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet.  Fresh  from  a  first  peru- 
sal of  'Paul  and  Virginia,'  he  seemed  to  understand  (on 
perceiving  that  the  letter  about  M'hich  the  young  captain 
appeared  so  anxious  was  addressed  to  a  '  Miss  Hallet ')  why 
he  was  so  anxious  concerning  the  delivery. 

" '  I  left  it  safe,  sir,  at  number  seven.  No  questions  were 
asked,'  said  he,  a  little  out  of  breath,  as  soon  as  he  came 
within  hail  of  the  scarlet  coat. 

" '  So  far^  so  good,'  observed  the  young  man,  turning 
towards  a  friend  on  whose  arm  he  was  leaning.  '  I  think 
I  may  be  sure,  this  time,  that  it  will  reach  her  hand.' 

"And  as  George  had  now  fully  discharged  his  commis- 
sion, he  was  making  off  towards  home,  when  the  officer 
suddenlv  called  him  back. 


86       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

" '  Hillo,  my  lad  !  we  mustn't  part  in  this  way,'  said  he. 
'  You've  done  me  better  service  than  you  think  for ;  and 
though  3^ou  don't  choose  to  be  paid  for  it,  you  must  have 
something  to  keep  in  remembrance  of  my  gratitude.' 

''  The  whole  party  were  now  opposite  the  shop  of  Palmer 
the  cutler,  into  which  the  apparently  overjoyed  letter- 
sender  ordered  his  prompt  messenger  to  follow  him ;  and, 
in  a  moment,  a  tray  of  many-bladed  knives  — knives  after 
a  bo3''s  own  heart  —  glittered  before  the  eyes  of  George. 

"  '  Make  your  choice,  youngster  ! '  said  the  officer,  who,  by 
the  obsequiousness  of  the  shopman,  was  apparently  well 
known  and  highly  considered.  '  You  seem  steady  enough 
to  be  trusted  with  sharp  implements.' 

"  '  Recollect,  my  dear  Wroxton,'  interrupted  his  compan- 
ion, good-humoredly,  'that  a  knife  is  the  most  unlucky 
keepsake  in  the  world ! ' 

'' 'Ay,  between  lovers !'  retorted  the  young  guardsman, 
pointing  out  to  his  protege  a  handsome  four-bladed  knife 
Avith  a  mother-of-pearl  handle,  which  he  seemed  to  recom- 
mend. '  But  in  this  case,  all  I  want  is  to  remind  this 
trusty  Pacolet  of  mine  that  I  am  in  existence ;  and  that  he 
will  often  find  me  on  the  same  spot,  waiting  to  engage  him 
for  the  same  service  he  executed  so  well  just  now.' 

"  Scarcely  knowing  in  what  words  to  express  his  grati- 
tude for  the  generous  manner  in  which  his  trifling  assistance 
was  requited,  poor  George  thankfully  acquiesced  in  the 
shopman's  suggestion  that  his  initials  should  be  engraved 
on  the  silver  escutcheon  ornamenting  the  handle  of  the 
knife.  It  could  be  finished  in  a  few  hours.  On  the  mor- 
row, George  was  to  call  for  it  at  Palmer's. 

" '  And  mind  you  don't  disappoint  the  little  fellow,'  said 
his  new  friend,  preparing  to  leave  the  shop.  '  It  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  send  my  own  servants  to  Sir  Jasper's,'  con- 
tinued he,  addressing  his  companion,  as  they  proceeded 
down  the  steps  to  resume  their  lounge  in  St.  James's 
Street ;  '  and  this  boy  is  precisely  the  sort  of  messenger 
not  to  excite  suspicion.' " 

What  an  agreeable  vivacity  there  is  about  this  descrip- 
tion !  Sparkling,  easy,  stylish,  and  so  like  nature.  I  think 
that  incident  of  a  knife  —  a  four-bladed  knife  with  a 
mother-of-pearl  handle  —  from  Palmer's,  in  St.  James's 
Street,  is  impayahle.  You  fancy  the  scene  :  the  young 
bucks  in  scarlet  —  Palmer  himself  —  the  Conservative  Club 
opposite,  with  the  splendid  dandies  in  'the  bow-window  — 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     87 

the  red-jackets  who  hold  the  horses  —  the  cab-stand  —  St. 
James's  Gate  and  clock.  Que  s^ais-je  ?  How  deftly  in  a 
few  strokes  a  real  artist  can  bring  out  a  picture. 

The  picture  is  taken  from  New  Year's  Day,  by  Mrs. 
Gore.  This  book  has  nothing  earthly  in  it  about  New 
Year's  Day.     The  plot  and  mystery  are  as  follows  :  — 

There  was  once  a  hectoring  young  Turk  of  a  captain  of 
foot,  who  married  a  young  woman  of  inferior  rank,  and, 
singular  to  state,  ill-used  her.  By  this  lady.  Captain  Hal- 
let  had  a  little  son:  he  bullied  and  ill-used  this  little  son 
too  in  such  a  manner  that  the  lad  threatened  to  drown 
himself ;  and  his  coat  and  cap  were  all  that  were  found  of 
the  young  fellow  by  the  side  of  the  poluphlois-boiothalas- 
ses,  into  the  dee^)  bosom  of  which  he  had  committed 
himself. 

The  mother's  heart  broke  in  twain  at  the  calamity ;  so 
did  John  Talbot's,  the  captain's  man  (so  far  as  male  hearts 
can  be  said  to  break,  for  this  sort  mends  again  almost  as 
good  as  new  commonly)  :  the  captain  became  an  altered 
man  too,  and  no  wonder.  A  couple  of  murders  on  his  con- 
science could  not  make  a  captain  of  foot  very  cheerful. 

The  Peninsular  War  breaking  out  at  this  juncture,  Cap- 
tain Jasper  Hallet  joined  the  heroic  ]\rajor-General  Sir 
Arthur  Wellesley.  at  present  F.  ^I.  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, K.  G.  etc.  Assaults,  scaladoes,  ambuscadoes,  hurrahs, 
cut-and-thrust,  fire  away,  run-you-tlirough-the-body.  Give  it 
'em,  boys  !  became  the  captain's  chief  delight ;  and  forlorn 
hopes  were  his  principal  diversions.  AVounded  he  was  a 
great  deal,  as  men  will  be  in  this  sort  of  sport ;  and  we 
picture  him  to  ourselves  as  devilled  and  scarred  like  the 
leg  of  that  turkey  which  has  stood  the  assault  of  Christ- 
mas-day. But  no  friendly  ball  laid  low  the  capting  —  as 
how  should  it  ?  otherwise  ]\Irs.  Gore's  stor}^  could  never 
have  been  written  —  on  the  contrary,  he  rose  to  be  a  major 
—  a  colonel  —  to  clasps  and  ribbons  innumerable  — to  com- 
mand a  brigade  in  the  unlucky  campaigns  of  New  Orleans, 
and  a  division  at  the  attack  of  Bhurtpore.  And  I  leave 
you  to  imagine  that  his  portion  of  the  swag  (as  the  Hindo- 
stan  phrase  is  for  plunder)  must  have  been  considerable, 
when  I  state  that  it  amounted  to  400,000Z.  Mrs.  Gore  is  a 
noble  creature,  and  makes  the  money  fly  about,  that  is  the 
truth. 

And  don't  you  see  when  a  man  has  400,000Z.  how  we  get 
to  like  him  in  spite  of  a  murder  or  two  ?     Our  author  yields 


88        CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

with  charming  naivete  to  the  general  impression.  He  is  a 
good  fellow,  after  all;  but  he  has  four  hundred  thousand; 
he  has  repented  of  his  early  brutalities ;  his  claret  is 
famous,  etc.,  etc.  Lieutenant-General  Sir  Jasper  Hallet, 
K.  C.  B.,  Belgrave  Square,  with  his  niece,  the  lovely  Mira, 
to  whom  it  was  known  he  had  given  20,000/.,  and  on  whom 
many  of  the  old  fogies  at  the  United  Service  Club  were 
looking  as  eligible  partners  for  their  own  sons.  The 
United  Service  —  que  dis-je  ? — the  Guards'  Club  had  an 
eye  on  her  too  ;  and  no  less  a  young  fellow  than  my  Lord 
Wroxton  (the  rogue  ! )  was  smitten  by  her. 

One  day  as  Miss  Hallet  was  driving  in  her  uncle's  ele- 
gant chariot  with  the  grays,  and  Johns  behind,  and  Kobert 
the  coachman  in  the  silver  wig  on  the  dickey  —  as  Eobert 
was  cutting  in  and  out  among  the  carriages  like  —  blazes,  I 
was  going  to  say,  but  why  use  an  expression  so  familiar  ? 
—  it  chanced  that  he  cut  over  a  child  —  a  poor  boy  —  a 
fair-haired  delicate  boy  —  a  bright-eyed  thing  —  cut  him 
over,  and  very  nearly  sent  the  wheels  over  him.  The  little 
cherub  was  rescued  from  the  chariot-wheel ;  but  before  the 
lovely  but  naturally  flustered  Mira  had  found  out  his  name, 
he  was  gone. 

Now,  my  dears,  do  you  begin  to  be  on  the  scent  ?  Who 
can  that  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  bright-eyed  thing  be  ?  Is 
it  a  baker's  boy,  is  it  a  charity  boy,  a  doctor's  boy,  or  any 
other  ditto  ?  My  heart  tells  me  that  that  child  is  not  what 
he  seems.     But  of  that  anon. 

In  a  court  off  St.  James's  Street  —  for  if  we  can't  be 
always  genteel  we'll  be  always  near  it  —  in  a  dreary  room, 
having  spent  her  money,  pawned  her  spoons,  exhausted  the 
little  store  Avhich  misfortune  had  left  her,  lives  a  grumbling 
old  woman,  by  the  name  of  Mrs.  Lawrie.  She  is  an  Amer- 
ican, and  as  such  the  grandmother  of  the  bright-eyed  child 
whose  acquaintance  we  have  just  had  the  honor  to  make. 

Yes,  but  who  was  his  father  ?  His  father  was  Colonel 
Jasper  Foreman  (mark  the  Jasper,  S.  V.  P !  ).  Coming  to 
this  country,  his  own  native  place,  with  ingots  of  gold 
packed  in  chests,  on  board  the  Antelope  packet,  at  only 
three  days  from  shore,  and  just  when  the  captain,  after 
some  conversations  with  him,  had  begun  to  treat  Colonel 
"  Jasper  Foreman  "  with  much  more  respect  than  a  mere 
Yankee  colonel  could  expect  —  at  three  days  off  port,  the 
ship  went  down,  with  the  captain,  with  Colonel  Foreman, 
all  his  money,  all  his  papers,  everything  except  the  boy, 


A   GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     89 

and  his  grandmother,  and  her  dozen  silver  spoons  and 
forks.  It's  a  mercy  the  old  lady  was  in  the  habit  of  carry- 
ing them  about  with  her,  or  what  would  the  pair  have  done 
on  reaching  Albion's  shore  ? 

They  went  to  live  in  the  court  off  St.  James's  Street, 
melting  away  the  spoons  one  by  one,  and  such  other  valu- 
ables as  had  escaped  the  shipwreck.  The  old  lady's  health 
was  impaired,  and  her  temper  abominable.  How  like  a 
little  angel  did  young  George  tend  that  crabbed  old  grand- 
mother !  George  had  a  little  bird  —  a  poor  little  bird,  and 
loved  the  little  warbler  as  boyhood  will  love.  The  old 
hunx  grumbled  at  the  little  bird,  and  said  it  ate  them  out 
of  house  and  home.  He  took  it  into  St.  James's  Park  (the 
keepers  let  him  pass,  for  George,  though  poor,  mended  his 
clothes  most  elegantly,  and  alwaj's  managed  to  look  gen- 
teel, bless  him),  and  he  let  loose  the  little  bird  in  the  Park : 
there's  a  picture  of  it,  with  the  towers  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  the  bird,  and  a  lady  and  gent  walking  in  the 
distance.  He  parted  from  his  darling  bird,  and  went  home 
to  his  grandmamma.  He  went  home  and  made  her  gruel. 
"  Bitterly  did  the  old  lady  complain  of  the  over-sugaring  of 
the  gruel."  There  is  a  picture  of  that  too.  George  is 
bringing  her  that  gruel  in  a  basin ;  there's  a  cow  on  the 
chimneypiece,  a  saucepan  in  the  fender,  a  cup  and  a  parcel 
(of  Embden  groats,  probably)  on  the  table.  Tears  —  sweet, 
gushing  tears,  sobs  of  heart-breaking  yet  heart-soothing 
affection,  break  from  one  over  this  ravishing  scene.  I  am 
crying  so,  I  can  hardly  write.  The  printers  will  never  sure 
decipher  this  blotted  page.  So  she  complained  of  the  over- 
sugaring  of  the  gruel,  did  she  ?  Dear  child  !  The  scene,  I 
feel,  is  growing  too  tender. 

As  I  describe  this  harrowing  tale  of  innocence  and  woe, 
I  protest  I  get  so  bewildered  with  grief  as  to  lose  the  power 
of  coherently  continuing  the  narrative.  This  little  George 
—  this  little  diddle-iddle  darling,  walking  in  St.  James's 
Street,  was  accosted  by  Lord  Wroxton,  who  gave  him  a  let- 
ter to  carry  —  a  letter  to  Belgrave  Street,  to  no  other  than 
]\Iiss  Mira  Hallet.  The  name  of  the  owner  of  the  house. 
Sir  Jasper  Hallet,  excited  in  the  boy  a  thousand  tumultu- 
ously  mysterious  emotions.  Jasper  I  his  papa's  name  was 
Jasper !  Were  the  two  Jaspers  related  anyhow  ?  The 
scoffing  menials  thrust  away  the  child  who  asked  the  ques- 
tion ;    but    still    he   was    hovering  about   the   place  —  still 


90       CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

watching  Miss  Hallet  and  following  her  carriage,  and  one 
day,  in  a  chase  after  it,  he  received  the  upset  which  opens 
the  story. 

Well,  well)  a  little  boy  knocked  down  in  the  very  first 
page  of  a  story  of  course  gets  up  again  —  of  course  he  finds 
his  parents  —  of  course  his  grandfather  makes  him  a  pres- 
ent of  at  least  half  the  four  hundred  thousand  ?  No  such 
thing :  the  little  boy  sickens  all  through  the  volume. 
Grandpapa  goes  abroad.  Comic  business  takes  place  — 
such  dreary  comic  business  !  —  about  the  lovers  of  Miss 
Mira.  In  the  midst  of  the  comic  business  at  Ems,  grand- 
papa receives  a  letter,  —  his  boy  is  found.  It  is  Jasper's 
son,  who,  instead  of  drowning  himself  then  (the  cheerful 
catastrophe  arriving  later),  only  went  to  sea.  Old  John 
Talbot,  the  faithful  servant,  has  found  him  starving  in  a 
garret.  Away,  away!  —  post  haste,  treble  drink-gelt,  vite 
'postilion  !  Sir  Jasper  arrives,  and  Mira,  essovfflee,  to  find 
the  little  boy  —  just  dead.  There's  a  picture  of  him.  A 
white  sheet  covers  him  over  —  old  John  Talbot  is  sobbing 
at  the  bedside  —  enter  the  general,  as  from  his  post-chaise. 
Horror,  horror !  Send  for  the  undertaker  !  It  is  all  up 
with  poor  little  Georgy  ! 

And  I  declare  I  have  not  the  slightest  compunctions  for 
his  demise.  The  book  ought  to  be  bound  in  crape,  and 
printed  on  black-edged  paper.  This  is  a  Christmas-book ! 
Where's  merry  Christmas  going?  Of  all,  all  deadly  live- 
liness —  of  all  maudlin  ululations  —  of  all  such  grand- 
mothers, grandsons,  and  water-gruel,  let  us  be  delivered  ! 
—  My  love,  hand  me,  if  you  please,  the  sky-blue-covered 
book,  January  Eve,  by  George  Soane,  B.A. 

I  have  my  doubts  whether  anybody  has  a  right  to  com- 
pose a  story,  certainly  no  one  is  authorized  to  write  a 
Christmas  story,  whereof  the  end  is  not  perfectly  comfort- 
able to  all  parties  —  to  the  readers  first,  to  the  heroes  and 
heroines  subsequently,  and  all  the  minor  characters  accord- 
ing to  their  deserts  or  beyond  them.  Why,  poor  rogues  in 
her  majesty's  very  jails  are  served  with  beef  and  pudding, 
and  mer(;ifulness  and  hospitality,  at  this  season  of  the  year  ; 
and  wherefore  are  you  and  I,  my  dear  Miss  Smith  —  not 
ill-natured  persons  in  the  main  ;  good-natured,  at  any  rate 
when  we  are  pleased  —  to  be  made  miserable  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  a  history,  by  being  called  upon  to  sympathize  Avith 
the  sickness,  the  premature  demise,  or  otherwise  unde- 
served misfortune,  of  certain  honest  personages  with  whose 


.1    GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     <Jl 

adventures  we  are  made  acquainted?  That  is  why,  madam, 
I  was  so  wroth  anon  with  Mrs.  Gore.  I  Avon't  show  mercy 
unto  her.  Why  should  I  to  a  lady  who  has  just  been  so 
unmerciful  to  a  poor  little  Whatdyecallem  —  the  General 
Thingumgig's  grandson,  I  mean  —  who  died  most  miserably 
just  as  he  was  coming  into  his  estate  ?  Mrs.  Gore  had  the 
fate  of  the  little  fellow  perfectly  in  her  hands  :  there  is  no 
eartlily  reason  why  he  should  not  have  got  well  of  the  car- 
riage running  over  him.  Why  should  not  ^Ir,  ^L'Cann,  of 
Parliament  Street,  for  instance,  have  been  passing  by,  as 
he  always  is  in  the  newspapers,  and  set  the  little  chap's 
shoulder  in  a  twinkling  ?  or  wh}'  was  not  my  friend  Doc- 
tor Quinton,  of  Arlington  Street,  driving  down  St.  James's 
Street  at  the  period  of  the  accident  ?  He  would  have 
stepped  out  of  his  carriage,  popped  in  the  little  lad,  car- 
ried him  to  his  grandmother,  cured  that  abominable  old 
woman  of  her  lumbago  and  her  ill-humor,  without  ever  so 
much  as  thinking  of  a  fee,  and  made  all  straight  and  pleas- 
ant by  the  time  Sir  Jasper  Whatisit  had  arrived  from  Wies- 
baden. It  was  just  as  easy  for  ]\Irs.  Gore  to  save  that  child 
and  make  it  perfectly  well  and  hearty,  as  to  throttle  it,  and 
go  off  to  the  undertaker's  with  a  religious  reflection.  None 
of  your  Herodian  stories  for  me.  No,  no  I  I  am  not  jolly 
at  a  funeral.  I  confess  it  does  not  amuse  me.  I  have  no 
taste  for  murders,  or  measles,  or  poison,  or  black  jobs  of 
any  sort.  We  will  have  a  word  or  two  with  Sir  Edward 
Lytton-Bulwer,  Bart.,  presently,  by  the  way,  Avho,  for  his 
infamous  and  murderous  propensities,  as  lately  shown  in 
his  most  appalling  and  arsenical  novel  of  Lucretia,  deserves 
to  be  brought  up  with  a  tight  hand.     But  of  this  anon. 

We  spake  but  now  of  Mrs.  Gore  going  to  the  under- 
taker's. When  the  excellent  ]Mrs.  Hubbard  went  to  the 
undertaker's  and  got  a  coflin,  what  was  the  upshot  of  that 
funereal  transaction  ?  Why,  as  we  all  know,  when  she 
came  back  her  favorite  was  laughing.  As,  of  course,  he 
should  be. 

That's  your  proper  sort  of  pantomime  business  —  that's 
the  right  way  in  Christmas  books.  Haven't  you  seen 
Clown  in  the  play ;  his  head  cut  off  by  the  butcher  and 
left  on  the  block  before  all  beholders  ;  his  limbs  severally 
mangled,  and  made  into  polonies,  and  yet,  in  two  minutes, 
he  says,  "  How  are  you  ?  "  (the  droll  dog  I)  as  lively  as 
ever  ?  Haven't  we  seen  Pantaloon  killed  before  our  very 
eyes,  put  pitilessly  into  his  mother's  mangle,  brought  from 


92       CRITICISMS  IN  LI  TEH  AT  ORE   AND   ART. 

that  instrument  utterly  dead,  and  stretched  eighteen  feet 
in  length  —  and  are  we  hurt,  are  our  feelings  outraged? 
No ;  we  know  Harlequin  will  have  him  alive  again  in  two 
minutes  by  a  quiver  of  his  stick,  and  the  old  rascal  will  be 
kittling  Columbine  under  the  chin,  while  that  spangled 
maniac,  her  lover,  is  waggling  his  head  in  his  frill  (as  if  it 
were  a  pudding  in  a  dish),  and  dancing  the  most  absurd, 
clumsy  hornpipe  in  the  back  scene.  And  as  in  pantomimes 
so  I  say  in  Christmas  stories,  those  fireside  Christmas  pan- 
tomimes, which  are  no  more  natural  than  Mother  Goose  or 
Harlequin  Gulliver.  Kill  your  people  off  as  much  as  you 
like  ;  but  always  bring  'em  to  life  again.  Belabor  your 
villains  as  you  please.  As  they  are  more  hideous  than  mor- 
tals, pummel  them  more  severely  than  mortals  can  bear. 
But  they  must  always  amend,  and  you  must  be  reconciled 
to  them  in  the  last  scene,  when  the  spangled  fairy  comes 
out  of  the  revolving  star,  and,  uttering  the  magic  octosyl- 
labic incantations  of  reconcilement,  vanishes  into  an  elysium 
of  blue  fire.  Sweet,  kindly,  eight-syllabled  incantations, 
pleasant  fantastic  fairy  follies,  charming  mystery,  wherein 
the  soul  is  plunged,  as  the  gentle  curtain  descends,  and 
covers  those  scenes  of  beloved  and  absurd  glory  !  Do  you 
suppose  the  people  who  invented  such  were  fools,  and 
wanted  to  imitate  great  blundering  realities  to  inculcate 
great  stupid,  moral  apophthegms  ?  —  anybody  can  do  that  — 
anybody  can  say  that  "  Evil,  communications  corrupt  good 
manners,"  or  that  "  Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time,"  or 
what  not :  but  a  poet  does  not  take  his  inspirations  from 
the  copy-book  or  his  pictures  from  the  police-office.  Is 
there  any  moralizing  in  Titania,  Ariosto,  or  Undine  ? 

All  this  is  apropos  of  the  sky-blue  story-book  by  George 
Soane,  B.A.  Now  this  sky-blue  story-book  (whereof  the 
flavor  somewhat  perhaps  resembles  the  beverage  of  aca- 
demic youth)  has  great  merits.  First,  it  is  improbable  ; 
secondly,  it  is  pretty  and  graceful ;  thirdly,  it  has  many 
pleasant  pastoral  descriptions,  and  kindly  ballet  groups 
and  dances  ;  fourthly,  the  criminals  are  reformed,  the  dead 
come  to  life  again,  and  the  devil  is  not  the  devil  —  to 
which,  by  the  way,  I  take  exception. 

The  rich  uncle  from  India  is  the  key  of  the  story  — 
(moTi  Dleii,  how  I  wish  I  had  one  coming  from  that  quar- 
ter!)—  the  conduct  of  a  beggar  on  horseback,  the  theme 
of  satire.  Tom  Starlight,  the  poacher,  drinking  with  his 
club  at  the  Black  Lion,  and  inveighing  against  the  tyranny 


A   GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHUISTMAS  BOOKS.     93 

of  a  scoundrelly  aristocracy,  finds  himself  converted  all  of  a 
sudden  into  Squire  Starlight,  of  Taunton  Hall.  The  squire 
gives  up  the  doctrines  of  the  poacher  :  he  is  the  strictest  of 
game  preservers  in  all  the  county,  the  most  severe  of  all 
landlords  and  arrogant  of  men.  Honest  Jack  Lint,  the  sur- 
geon, was  going  to  marry  Tom's  sister  when  he  was  in  low 
life ;  but,  become  a  nobleman,  Tom  says  she  shall  marry  old 
Lord  Ivheumatiz  ;  and  so  the  poor  girl  all  but  breaks  her 
heart.  Stella  breaks  hers  outright.  She  is  the  blind  old 
schoolmaster's  daughter,  old  Elias  Birch  —  a  dear,  impossi- 
ble old  gentleman,  with  pink  cheeks,  red  stockings,  and 
cotton  hair,  such  as  you  see  come  out  of  the  canvas  cottage 
in  the  ballet  and  bless  the  lassies  and  lads  (with  their  shirt 
sleeves  tied  up  with  ribbon)  before  the  ballet  begins. 

''At  this  critical  moment,  when  the  question  was  on  his 
lips,  which,  if  spoken,  might  perhaps  have  averted  no  com- 
mon calamity,  he  was  interrupted  by  a  chorus  of  boyish 
voices,  so  close  and  so  unexpected  as  almost  to  startle  him. 

"  '  Te,  maglster,  salutanuis; 
Te,  uiagister,  nunc  laiulamus, 
Semper,  semper  sis  beatus, 
Felix  dies  quo  tu  natus. 
nurrah ! ' 

'' '  Why,  it's  the  boys  from  the  free  school ! '  exclaimed 
the  old  man ;  '  I  did  not  know  it  was  a  holiday.' 

''  No,  dear  Elias,  nor  was  it  a  holiday,  according  to  the 
school-rubric ;  but  it  is  good  sometimes  to  be  merry,  even 
though  it  is  not  so  set  down  in  the  calendar ;  and  this  was 
your  birthday  —  the  tirst  since  blindness  had  compelled 
you  to  give  up  the  ferula,  which  you  had  wielded  so  gently 
over  the  urchins,  and  in  many  instances  over  their  fathers 
and  even  grandfathers  before  them.  Here  they  were, 
grateful  little  fellows,  with  full  hands,  and  fuller  hearts, 
come  to  say,  •  We  do  love  you  so,  kind  old  master  I '  And, 
to  use  a  common  phrase,  though  not  in  a  common  sense, 
there  was  no  love  lost  between  them,  for  Elias  could 
scarcely  have  taken  a  livelier  interest  in  their  welfare  had 
they  really  been  his  own  children. 

"In  they  tumbled,  thronging,  talking,  laughing,  till  as 
many  had  crowded  into  the  cottage-parlor  as  it  would  well 
hold,  when  the  younger  and  weaker  fry,  who  were  thus 
ousted  by  their  seniors,  clambered  up  to  the  window-sill, 
where   they  clustered   like    a   swarm  of   bees.     The   new 


94        CRITICISMS    IN   LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

schoolmaster,  quite  astounded  at  such  a  jubilee,  would  fain 
have  re-established  order  among  them. — Order!  silly  fel- 
low !  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  is  order  better  than  those 
merry  faces,  all  hope  and  sunshine  ?  is  order  better  than 
all  that  mass  of  happiness,  which  laughs,  and  shouts,  and 
climbs,  and  hustles,  and  is  not  to  be  purchased  at  any  price  ? 
leave  them  alone,  for  goodness'  sake.  And  he  did  leave 
them  alone,  for  he  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  that  new  master, 
though  he  was  far  from  being  an  Elias  Fairfield.  Some- 
how, too,  he  was  beginning  to  laugh,  and  be  exceedingly 
merry  himself,  without  exactly  knowing  why  —  perhaps  it 
was  for  company's  sake. 

"But  the  head-boy  had  a  grand  Latin  speech  to  deliver, 
a  thing  of  his  own  concoction,  and  made  expressly  for  the 
occasion.  Of  course  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  begin  —  most 
orators  are  —  and  his  influence,  assisted  by  a  hint  from 
Stella  that  the  noise  was  almost  too  much  for  her  grand- 
father, effected  a  temporary  lull.  A  proud  moment  was  it 
for  the  young  Cicero,  and  with  infinite  complacency  did  the 
sightless  old  man  listen  to  his  harangue,  only  throwing  in 
an  occasional  correction  —  he  could  not  entirely  forget 
former  habits  —  when  the  orator  blundered  in  his  grammar, 
as  would  now  and  then  happen. 

'•Then  came  the  presentation  of  gifts,  in  which  each 
young  holiday-maker  acted  for  himself,  and  in  a  fevv  min- 
utes the  cottage  table  was  covered  with  nosegays,  for  as 
early  as  the  season  was  —  primroses,  crocuses,  both  yellow 
and  purple,  polyanthuses,  pansies,  and  I  know  not  what 
besides.  One  little  fellow,  having  nothing  better  within 
his  means,  tied  together  a  bunch  of  daisies,  which  he  pre- 
sented amidst  the  jeers  of  his  schoolmates  —  'a  pretty 
gift  for  any  one  !  on  a  birthday  too!'  and  again  the  laugh 
went  round.  But  the  old  man  caught  the  child  to  his 
bosom,  and  kissing  him  tenderly,  while  the  tears  ran  down 
his  furrowed  cheeks,  bade  Stella  take  especial  care  of  the 
daisies. 

"  '  Put  them  in  Avater  directly,  love,  and  don't  fling  them 
away,  either,  when  they  die  —  mind  that.  You  can  lay 
them  between  the  leaves  of  my  great  Bible,  and  then  I 
shall  always  have  them  near  me.' 

"  TV  hat  next  ?  —  the  orator  again  steps  forward.  No  more 
Latin  speeches,  I  hope  —  oh  no  !  not  the  least  fear  of  that. 
He  is  supported  as  they  say  of  other  deputations,  by  a 
dozen  of  the  eldest  boys,  who  for  the  last  two  months  have 


.1   GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     95 

clubbed  together  their  weekly  allowances  to  buy  a  silver 
goblet  for  their  dear  old  master.  It  was  second-hand,  but 
just  as  good  as  new  ;  the  dents  and  bruises  had  been  care- 
fully hammered  out,  and  it  had  been  polished  up  both  in- 
side and  outside,  as  only  a  silversmith  can  do  these  things. 
Indeed,  their  own  funds  had  not  sufficed  for  so  magnificent  an 
undertaking,  and  so  they  had  been  helped  out  by  fathers,  or 
brothers,  or  uncles,  who  in  their  day  had  been  scholars  of 
Elias,  and  were  now  grown  up  into  substantial  yeomen,  or 
thriving  shopkeepers. 

'•What  next?  —  a  deputation  of  young  girls  from  the 
neighboring  villages,  with  fowls,  and  eggs,  and  bacon. 
Why,  surely,  they  must  fancy  the  cottage  in  a  state  of 
siege,  and  badly  off  for  provisions  ! 

"  What  next  ?  —  Sir  Edward's  gamekeeper  with  a  hare, 
and  his  kind  remembrance  to  his  old  master  —  will  call 
himself  before  the  day's  over." 

This  is  as  it  should  be:  your  proper,  pleasant,  rouged, 
grinning,  junketing,  pantomimic  business.  It  is  not  in- 
tended to  be  natural  —  only  pretty  and  kind-hearted  — 
pleasing  to  the  e3'e — cheerfully  ticklesome  to  the  senses 
—  mildly  festive,  benevolent,  and  brisk.  I  doubt,  after  all, 
if  there  is  any  need  for  an  artist  to  make  his  portraits  like. 
What  you  want  is  not  to  be  struck  by  the  resemblance,  but 
to  be  impregnated  with  the  idea.  For  instance,  when  the 
thunderstorm  comes,  as  in  Beethoven's  Pastoral  Symphony, 
you  don't  think  of  putting  up  your  umbrella:  when  you 
read  young  Mr.  S.  Roger's  pretty  verses  — 

''  Mine  be  a  cot  beside  a  hill, 
A  beehive's  hum  salute  my,"  etc. 

you  are  not  led  to  suppose  that  they  contain  a  real  picture 
of  rural  life  and  felicity  ;  but  they  fill  tlie  mind  with  sweet, 
pleasant,  countrified,  hay-smelling,  hawtliorn-flowering, 
tree-whispering,  river-babbling,  breeze-blowing,  rural  per- 
ceptions, wherein  lie  the  reader's  delight  and  the  poet's 
charm  and  mystery.  As  the  mesmerists'  giving  a  glass  of 
cold  water  to  their  lucky  patients  can  make  the  liquor 
assume  any  taste,  from  Johannisberg  to  ginger-beer  —  it  is 
water  still,  but  it  has  the  effect  of  wine :  so  a  poet  mes- 
merizes you  with  his  magical  tap,  and  —  but  for  the  tenth 
time  we  are  straying  from  the  point  in  hand,  which  is,  Why 
Stella  Birch  broke  her  heart. 


96       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

She  broke  her  heart,  then,  because  Tom  Starlight  broke 
it  —  that  is,  he  ill-used  her  —  that  is,  he  promised  her. 
Well,  well,  she  jumped  into  the  mill-stream  with  a  shriek 
and  a  plunge ;  and  that  brute  Tom,  not  contented  with  the 
ruin  of  one  poor  girl,  must  endeavor  to  perpetrate  the  de- 
struction of  another,  his  sister,  by  marrying  her  to  the 
before-mentioned  Lord  Lumbago.  Fancy  the  fury  of  poor 
Jack  Pills  —  Fanny  perishing  away  —  the  bells  actually 
ringing  for  her  marriage  with  Lord  Sciatica  —  the  trembling 
victim  led  to  the  altar,  and  Bob  Sawyer  about  to  poison 
himself  with  the  most  excruciating  black  doses  in  his  estab- 
lishment. When,  presto !  the  fairy  in  the  revolving  car 
appears.  The  old  gentleman  is  not  the  devil  who  gave  Tom 
the  estate,  but  Tom's  uncle  from  India  who  wishes  to  try  him. 
Tom  is  not  Squire  Starlight  of  Taunton  Hall,  but  a  dumb, 
penniless,  detected,  young  scapegrace,  to  be  handed  over 
to  the  castigators.  Viscount  Chalkstones  shall  not  marry 
poor  dear  little  Fanny,  who,  on  the  contrary,  shall  bless 
Tom  Tourniquet  with  her  hand  and  twenty  thousand 
pounds  administered  by  the  uncle  in  India.  Stella  is  not 
dead  any  more  than  you  are.  She  jumped  into  the  water, 
I  own ;  but  the  miller  heard  the  plop  and  tished  her  out 
and  kept  her  safe,  and  now  she  comes  back,  and  of  course 
Tom  Starlight  makes  an  honest  woman  of  her.  The  only 
person  who  dies  is  old  Elias  Kodwell,  the  schoolmaster ; 
but  then  he  is  so  old,  so  very  old,  and  his  hair  so  very  cot- 
tony, that  his  death  is  rather  a  pleasure  than  otherwise ; 
and  you  fancy  his  life  was  onl}'  a  sort  of  make-believe. 
And  so  everybody  is  happy,  and  the  light-blue  entertain- 
ment of  Mr.  Soane  closes.  It  is  a  good,  cheap,  easy,  and 
profitable  Christmas  pastime. 

I  take  the  Brothers  Mayhew  to  be  a  couple  of  good-natured 
hermits,  living  out  of  the  world  in  practices  of  asceticism, 
and  yet  having  a  kindly  recollection  of  that  scene  of  strife 
and  struggle  which  they  have  left  behind  them.  They" 
write,  from  their  monastery,  a  work  of  prodigious  benevo- 
lence, stupendous  moralization,  frequent  wisdom,  and  rather 
a  clumsy  and  doubtful  fancy  and  humor.  To  say  of  a 
''  good  genius  "  that  he  "  turns  everything  into  gold,"  is, 
perhaps,  an  undeserved,  though  not  an  unprecedented  compli- 
ment to  bullion.  It  is  an  homage  to  specie.  The  proposi- 
tion stands  thus  :  a  good  genius  turns  everything  into  gold ; 
therefore  gold  is  a  good  genius.  And  the  fable  is  wrought 
in  the  followinsr  manner  :  — 


A   GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     97 

Silvio,  a  forester  in  a  goatskin  jacket,  having  lost  liis 
paternal  hut  by  a  sudden  inundation,  finds  himself  in  his 
native  wood  with  no  resource  but  his  hatchet  and  a  piece 
of  bread,  his  last  refreshment.  In  the  wood  Silvio  finds 
a  hive  of  lioney.  The  houseless  and  penniless  youth  is 
about  to  give  a  relish  to  his  last  piece  of  bread  with  the 
honey  so  discovered,  when  a  sentimental  objection  sud- 
denly makes  him  pause.  "  Xo,"  says  he  (but  in  the  finest 
language),  "  I  will  not  deprive  these  innocent  bees  of  the 
produce  of  their  labor ;  that  which  they  have  gathered,  as 
they  roamed  from  flower  to  flower,  let  them  enjoy  in  dignified 
otiosity  ;  I  will  dip  my  crust  into  the  stream,  content  my- 
self w^ith  that  wholesome  repast,  and  not  rob  them  of  the 
results  of  their  industry." 

This  unexampled  benevolence  touches  the  Queen  Bee, 
who  is  a  fairy  in  disguise.  She  suddenly  appears  before 
Silvio  in  her  character  of  Fair}'  Bee-queen  —  bids  him  to 
state  in  what  manner  she  can  be  serviceable  to  him  — and, 
in  fact,  fulfils  every  possible  wish  that  the  young  Silvio  can 
form.  "  Only  come  out  in  tluit  goatskin  jacket,"  says  she, 
"  so  that  I  may  know  you,  and  anything  you  like  shall  be 
yours." 

First,  he  wishes  to  have  his  cottage  restored  to  him ;  the 
Good  Genius  instantly  re-instates  him  in  that  tenement. 
The  Princess  of  the  Country  calls  upon  him,  and  is  dis- 
satisfied with  the  accommodation.  Silvio,  of  course,  finds 
out  that  it  is  no  longer  convenient.  He  demands  a  neat 
little  villa,  whither  the  Princess  too  follows  him.  Encour- 
aged by  her  visit,  the  audacious  young  man  proposes  mar- 
riage to  her.  "  What !  you,"  says  she,  "  a  mere  country 
householder,  wish  to  marry  the  likes  of  me  ?  "  And  she 
leaves  him  in  a  huff.  '•  Make  me  a  prince,"  says  Silvio  to 
his  fairy  patroness,  "  so  that  I  may  be  her  equal ; "  and  im- 
mediately the  Queen  Bee  erects  a  principality  and  city  for 
him.  Silvio  marries  the  Princess,  and  —  they  live  happy 
ever  after,  you  would  imagine  ? 

Not  so.  Prince  Silvio  plunges  into  idleness  and  de- 
baucheries ;  he  is  driven  out  of  his  capital  by  his  indignant 
subjects.  He  loses  his  goatskin  jacket,  the  great  talisman 
of  his  fortune.  He  is  plunged  into  misfortunes,  which  he 
bears  with  great  philosophy  and  most  eloquent  benevo- 
lence ;  but  finally  finding  his  goatskin  again,  his  kingdom 
is  restored,  his  prosperity  returns,  and  he  and  his  princess 
?.nd  daughter  are  doubtless  happy  to  this  very  da\ . 


98       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

The  history  is  interspersed  with  some  comic  business. 
Silvio's  barber,  in  fact,  gets  hold  of  the  goatskin  jacket 
when  the  prince  makes  his  precipitate  flight  from  his 
dominions  —  enjoys  unintelligible  property  whilst  wearing 
this  article;  and  goes  mad  upon  losing  it  when  Silvio 
comes  back  to  his  own  again.  I  protest  against  the  whole 
affair  —  against  the  fable  —  against  the  jacket  —  against 
the  bee  —  against  Silvio  —  against  his  bad  fortune  and  his 
good  —  against  the  fairy  turning  everything  into  money,  etc. 

If  a  man  wants  to  make  a  mere  fantastic  tale,  nobody 
calls  upon  him  to  be  tight  and  close  in  his  logic.  If  he 
wants  to  moralize,  his  proposition  should  be  neat  and  clear, 
as  his  argument  is  correct.  I  am  reconciled  now  to  the 
wolf  eating  up  Ked  Kiding  Hood  (though  I  was  sceptical 
in  my  childhood  on  this  point),  because  I  have  given  up 
believing  that  this  is  a  moral  tale  altogether,  and  am  content 
to  receive  it  as  a  wild,  odd,  surprising,  and  not  unkindly 
fairy  story.  But  if  gentlemen  set  out  professing  a  labori- 
ous moral,  inculcating  the  beauties  of  industry,  and  how 
it  turns  everything  into  gold  or  pinchbeck,  as  the  matter 
may  be,  I  and  other  little  children  have  a  right  to  de- 
mand a  pure  fable  along  with  all  this  didactic  solemnity. 
"Brothers  May  hew,"  I  exclaim,  "if  you  are  going  to 
amuse  me,  do  so.  Awaken  my  wonder  —  my  laughter  — 
my  sense  of  pleasure;  excite  me  by  sweet  rural  pictures, 
or  brilliant  fairy  colors,  or  jovial  grotesque  perplexities : 
but  if  you  would  instruct,  in  the  name  of  Justice  let  us 
have  the  real  sort  of  morals.  Sermons  and  snapdragon  do 
not  go  well  together.  Plum-pudding  is  good  in  its  way; 
but  a  dose  of  brandy  is  better  with  it  than  a  brimming 
ladleful  of  virtue.  If  there  were  really  your  sort  of  good 
genius  in  the  world,  Socrates  ought  to  have  driven  off 
from  his  trial  in  a  coach-and-six  to  Xantippe,  the  loveliest 
and  best-natured  of  women ;  and  yet  we  know  to  the  con- 
trary. She  was  a  shrew,  and  her  husband  was  hanged.  A 
banker's  account  is  a  fine  thing  when  properly  organized, 
and  the  balance  agreeably  preponderating  upon  your  side  ; 
but  there  are  other  accounts  we  have  to  settle,  and  if  they 
look  at  this  sublunary  sphere,  mes  freres,  and  the  misfor- 
tunes of  the  good  and  the  prosperity  of  their  opposites  — ■ 
at  Genius  and  Virtue  in  neglect  and  penury,  and  Dulness 
blundering  into  success,  and  Knavery  filching  Eeputation, 
how  can  sublime  moralists  talk  about  goodness  and  gold 
together  ?     Whatever  we  may  do  privately  as  individuals, 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     99 

let  us  sublime  moralists  never  publicly  worship  twopence 
lialfpenny.  I,  for  my  part  (as  one  of  the  aforesaid),  will 
always  make  an  uproar  when  I  meet  with  any  apologue 
conveying  such  a  foolish  signitication ;  and  I  wish  that 
some  Christmas  story-tellers  would  make  us  a  few  tales,  in 
which  all  the  rogues  should  prosper,  and  all  the  honest 
men  go  to  jail,  just  to  correct  the  present  odious  tendency 
of  the  guides  of  public  taste. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  book  of  the  Brothers  May  hew 
has  so  much  merit,  and  is  written  often  with  so  much  bril- 
liancy, and  frequently  with  such  dulness,  —  is  so  wise  at 
times,  and  so  unsatisfactory  in  the  main,  that  it  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  critical  office  to  abuse  and  deny  it  altogether, 
—  the  which  I  cordially  do;  and  I  warn  the  public,  firstly, 
that  under  pretence  of  giving  him  a  fairy  story,  the 
authors  of  the  Good  Genius  that  Turned  Everything  into, 
etc.,  inveigle  the  reader  into  a  sermon,  —  that  the  sermon 
is  quite  unsatisfactory,  but  that  the  teachers  have  a  plenty 
of  brains  to  supply  their  abundance  of  doctrine. 

A  very  able  and  complimentary  review  of  this  book 
appeared  under  the  title  of  '•  Fairy  Politics ; ''  for  be  it 
known  that  Silvio  and  the  fairy  discuss  a  prodigious  deal 
of  political  ethics  together.  If  any  fairy  presumes  to  talk 
any  such  nonsense  to  me,  I  will  do  my  best  from  my  place 
in  the  pit  to  hiss  him  off  the  stage.  Had  it  been  any  the 
best  known  and  dearest  author —  had  it  been  Dickens  him- 
self, we  should  assume  the  privilege  of  replying  to  him 
with  the  cat-call,  or  other  Protestant  instrument,  until  the 
policeman  ordered  us  otf  the  premises. 

"  To  see  the  faults  of  a  great  master,  look  at  his  imita- 
tors," Reynolds  says  in  his  Discourses ;  and  the  sins  of 
Mr.  Dickens's  followers  must  frighten  that  gentleman  not 
a  little.  Almost  every  one  of  the  Christmas  carollers  are 
exaggerating  the  master's  own  exaggerations,  and  cari- 
caturing the  face  of  Nature  most  shamelessly.  Every 
object  in  the  world  is  brought  to  life,  and  invested  with  a 
vulgar  knowingness  and  outrageous  jocularity.  Winds 
used  to  whistle  in  former  days,  and  oaks  to  toss  their 
arms  in  the  storm.  Winds  are  now  made  to  laugh,  to 
howl,  to  scream,  to  triumph,  to  sing  choruses ;  trees  to 
squint,  to  shiver,  to  leer,  to  grin,  to  smoke  pipes,  dance 
hornpipes,  and  smoke  those  of  tobacco.  When  the  Brothers 
Mayhew  wish  to  be  funny  and  in  the  fashion,  they  say, — 

"  The  bright  eye  of  day  was  now  fast  getting  blood-shot 


100      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

with  the  coming  cold  of  night."  "  A  bee  goes  singing  past 
him,  merry  as  though  he  had  taken  a  flower  cup  too 
much."  ''  Aurora  had  just  begun  to  light  her  fire  in  the 
grate  of  the  East,  and  the  old  Sun  was  still  snug  under 
the  blankets  of  the  horizon."  "The  king  thanked  his 
stars  that  he  was  not  always  called  upon  to  leave  his  bed 
until  the  sun  had  passed  his  bright  copper  warming-pan 
over  the  damp  clouds,  and  properly  aired  the  atmosphere 
for  his  reception." 

"What  clumsy  joking  this  is !  what  dreary  buffooning  ! 
by  men  who  can  write,  too,  as  well  as  this !  It  must  be 
premised  that  the  Princess  Amaranth,  Silvio's  wife,  is 
longing  to  see  her  father,  the  old  king,  and  she  breaks 
her  wish  to  her  husband  in  the  Eastern  manner  by  an 
allegory :  — 

" '  It  is  related  that  the  Sea-shell  was  the  favorite 
daughter  of  the  Wave ;  and  that  he  watched  over  her  with 
love,  shielding  her  from  injury :  and  folded  her  in  his 
bosom,  and  cherished  her  as  his  best  beloved,  ever  whisper- 
ing the  music  of  affection  in  her  ear.  jSTow  the  Sea-shell 
loved  the  noble  Kock  upon  the  shore ;  but  the  Wave  and 
the  Rock  were  enemies,  battling  with  each  other ;  so  that 
when  the  haughty  Wave  found  out  the  love  of  his  rosy- 
lipped  child,  he  spoke  in  a  voice  of  rage  to  her  thus  :  "  If 
thou  sighest  to  wed  with  yonder  Kock,  I  will  cast  thee 
from  my  bosom,  and  turn  from  thee.  Go  where  thou  wilt, 
my  anger  shall  haunt  thee,  and  ever  ring  in  thy  ear  ! "  But 
the  Shell  loved  on,  and  the  swelling  Wave  dashed  her  from 
him.  And  though  the  steadfast  Rock  cherished  his  ocean 
Bride  with  every  kindness,  and  kept  her  always  by  his 
side,  still  the  Shell  pined  in  sorrow ;  for,  as  her  white- 
haired  sire  had  said,  the  anger  of  the  Wave  kept  ever 
haunting  her,  and  ringing  in  her  ear.'" 

A  Fairy  lecturer :  — 

"And  so  saying  the  fairy  hummed  the  following  charm :  — 

"'Quick!   let  him  read  the  Kocks!  and  see 
In  them  Earth's  biography  ! 
Discover  Stars  beyond  the  sight! 
Weigh  them  !  and  time  the  speed  of  Light  ! 
Witliin  the  dew-drop's  tiny  sphere 
Let  Animalcule  Worlds  appear! 
Each  puny  Monster  let  him  scan. 
Then  mark  the  Animalcule  Man  ! 
And  tracing  use  in  great  and  small. 
Sees  Good  in  each,  and  God  in  all  ! ' 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     101 

••  Then  Silvio  was  lifted  up  in  the  air,  and  carried  by 
winged  spirits  far  into  the  realms  of  space,  until  the  world 
beneath  him  dwindled  into  a  star,  and  the  stars  above  him 
swelled  into  worlds.  And  as  he  flew  past  them,  and  they 
past  him,  he  saw  systems  rise  after  systems,  and  suns 
upon  suns,  whose  light  had  never  yet  reached  the  eyes  of 
men.  And  still,  as  he  looked  before  him,  the  stars  lay 
thick  as  sands  in  the  blue  sea  of  the  heavens ;  while,  as  he 
travelled  on,  that  which  in  the  distance  appeared  only  one 
brilliant  mass  of  confusion,  separated  as  he  advanced,  into 
new  worlds,  threading  with  wondrous  order  the  glittering 
maze,  and  spinning  in  their  lightning  course,  until  the  air 
vibrated  again,  and  the  universe  was  melodious  with  the 
hum  of  their  motion. 

"  Suddenly  Silvio  was  on  the  earth  again,  with  the  fairy 
bee  at  his  side.  Then,  waving  her  wand,  she  showed  him 
a  little  universe  in  every  atom  —  a  busy  world  in  every 
drop ;  and  how  each  grain  of  the  earth  was  itself  a  globe 
teeming  with  life,  and  peopled  with  a  manikin  race,  whose 
structure  was  as  wonderful  and  as  perfect  as  his  own. 

"  Then  she  took  him  down  with  her  deep  into  the  earth, 
and  turning  over  with  her  wand  the  layers  of  rocks,  as 
though  they  were  the  leaves  of  a  mighty  volume,  Silvio 
read  within  them  the  Wondrous  Tale  of  Creation.  And  in- 
stantly he  lived  in  the  time  when  man  was  yet  unborn,  and 
monster  beasts  roamed  through  the  giant  forests,  the  un- 
disputed monarchs  of  a  desert  world. 

"And  again  ascending  to  the  surface,  the  fairy  opened  to 
him  the  affinities  of  things,  showing  him  how  the  air  he 
breathed  made  metals  moulder  and  fires  burn ;  and  how 
the  black  charcoal  was  the  parent  of  the  glittering  dia- 
mond ;  and  how  the  water  he  drank  sprang  from  the  burn- 
ing of  gases  that  he  could  neither  feel,  taste,  smell,  nor  see  ; 
and  how  the  atmosphere  around  him  consisted  of  the  self- 
same ingredients  as  the  acid,  which  scarcely  any  metal 
could  withstand. 

"  Then  she  disclosed  to  him  all  the  mysteries  of  herbs 
and  minerals,  showing  him  their  good  and  evil  powers,  and 
how  a  little  flower  or  a  few  small  crystals  might  save  or 
take  a  life. 

"And,  lastly,  laying  bare  to  him  the  mechanism  of  his 
own  m3^sterious  frame,  she  showed  Silvio  how  the  bread  he 
ate  became  the  blood  of  his  arteries  and  veins ;  and  how 
the  sanguine  stream  meandered  through  his  body  like  a 


102      CRITICISMS  IN   LITEUATCRE   AND   ART. 

I'uby  river,  giving  life  and  vigor  to  all  within  its  course; 
and  how  thin  nerves,  like  threads,  worked  his  puppet 
limbs,  and  running  to  his  brain,  became  the  conduits  of  his 
will  and  feelings,  and  the  cords  which  linked  his  immortal 
spirit  to  the  world  without. 

"  Bewildered  with  wonder,  and  with  his  brain  aching  with 
tlie  knowledge  he  liad  learned,  Silvio  returned  home." 

Honest  and  fine  as  this  writing  is,  surely  it  is  out  of 
place,  and  little  to  be  understood  by  children.  I  protest 
against  neither  pantomimes  nor  against  Walker's  Orrery, 
but  I  protest  against  Walker's  Orrery  in  a  pantomime. 
And  this  is  my  ground  for  grumbling  against  this  wise, 
this  ingenious,  this  clever,  but  this  clumsy  and  ponderous 
allegory  of  the  Brothers  Mayhew. 

But  the  personification-mania  of  the  Mayhew  Brothers 
is  as  nothing  compared  to  the  same  malady  in  the  author 
of  the  Yule  Log,  Mr.  A.  Chamerovzow,  who  has  summoned 
the  admirable  George  Cruikshank  to  iiis  aid,  and  produced 
his  Christmas  legend  with  gilt  leaves  and  cover ;  in  Avhich 
there  is  the  usual  commodity  of  fairies,  and  a  prize  rustic, 
who,  impelled  by  the  demon  of  avarice,  neglects  his  friends, 
knocks  down  his  blessed  angel  of  a  wife,  turns  his  seduced 
daughter  out  of  doors,  and  is  on  the  point  of  being  mur- 
dered by  his  eldest  son ;  but  just  at  the  critical  moment  of 
throttling  he  wakes  up  and  finds  it  all  a  dream  !  Isn't  this 
a  novelty  ?  Isn't  this  a  piece  of  ingenuity  ?  Take  your 
rustic,  your  fairies,  your  nightmare,  finish  off  with  a  plum- 
pudding  and  a  dance  under  the  holly-bush,  and  a  benign  in- 
vocation to  Christmas,  kind  hearts,  and  what  no't.  Are  we 
to  have  this  sort  of  business  forever  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  will 
people  never  get  tired  of  reading  what  they  know,  and 
authors  weary  of  inventing  what  everybody  has  been  going 
on  inventing  for  ages  past  ? 

Read  the  following  specimen  of  the  style  of  Mr.  Cham- 
erovzow,  and  say.  Is  not  the  animated  landscape  nuisance 
becoming  most  tolerable,  and  no  longer  to  be  endured  ?  — 

"  Still  the  years  rolled  on,  and  still  the  sturdy  Beech 
mocked  and  braved  the  Tempest  as  boldly  as  ever.  In 
the  dingle  it  stood,  unmolested  and  respected ;  almost  ven- 
erated :  for  now  it  was  known  to  be  haunted,  nobody  durst 
expose  himself  to  the  fury  of  the  Spirits  by  attempting  to 
fell  it.  Nevertheless,  some  half-dozen  times  it  was  tried ; 
but,  invariably,  the  Woodman  renounced  the  task  in  de« 
spair,  after  he  had  blunted  his  best  axes,  without  cutting 
even  through  the  bark. 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.    103 

'•  At  length,  Time  beat  the  tree  hollow  :  it  was  a  long 
race,  notwithstanding,  and  the  gallant  old  Beech  stood  it 
out  bravely,  and  proved  itself  game  to  the  last ;  for  though 
its  inside  was  growing  weaker  and  weaker,  it  still  kept  up 
a  good  appearance ;  so  that  one  might  have  taken  odds  it 
would  never  give  in,  for  all  that  its  leaves  showed  later 
than  the}-  used,  and  fell  earlier.  Then  its  giant  foot, 
which  covered  no  end  of  ground,  grew  gouty ;  and  large 
wooden  corns  and  bunions  spread  all  over  it ;  its  trunk, 
lately  so  solid  and  hale,  began  to  crack,  and  peel,  and  to 
come  out  in  broad,  unhealthy-looking  blotches ;  let  alone 
that  it  wheezed  asthmatically  when  the  Wind  blew ;  its 
massive  limbs,  too,  betrayed  rheumatic  symptoms,  and 
creaked  and  groaned  at  every  puff". 

"And  now  it  was  the  Wind's  turn  to  laugh  at  and  buffet 
the  Beech,  that  had  for  so  many  years  mocked  its  power, 
and  set  its  rage  at  defiance :  every  time  it  got  a  chance, 
away  it  swept  with  a  branch,  amputating  it  at  one  blow, 
and  flinging  tlie  disabled  member  back  into  its  teeth  with 
savage  malignity ;  then  it  would  catch  hold  of  its  noble 
head,  and  tear,  and  tug,  and  pull,  and  twist  it,  until  obliged 
to  give  over  from  sheer  exhaustion  ;  and  all  to  loosen  its 
roots,  that  it  might  enjoy  the  satisfaction  of  knocking  the 
tree  down  and  trampling  upon  it :  still  the  old  fellow 
fought  hard,  and  did  his  best  to  roar  and  laugh  at  his 
ancient  enemy  as  he  used  of  yore ;  though  anybody  might 
have  perceived  the  difference  with  only  half  an  eye." 

See  in  the  second  paragraph  what  happens  to  the 
beech :  — 

1.  He  is  running  a  race  with  Time,  who  beats  him. 

2.  He  is  brave  and  game. 

3.  His  inside  is  getting  weak. 

4.  His  feet  are  gouty. 

5.  He  has  corns  and  bunions. 

6.  His  body  comes  out  in  blotches. 

7.  He  wheezes  asthmaticalh*. 

8.  He  has  the  rheumatism. 

There's  a  collection  of  cheerful  ideas  for  you  I  There's 
a  jolly,  rollicking,  buniony,  wheezy,  gouty,  rheumatic, 
blotchy  Christmas  metaphor!  Is  this  the  way  a  gentle- 
man takes  to  make  himself  pleasant  ?  Is  it  ingenious  ?  Is 
it  poetical,  or  merely  foolish,  in  a  word  ?  I  believe  it  to 
be  the  easiest  and  silliest  kind  of  composition  in  which 
any  poetaster  can  indulge.     I  will  engage  to  vivify  my 


104      CRITICISMS  IX   LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

tailor's  bill;  to  make  a  romance  out  of  the  heart  of  my 
boot-jack ;  to  get  up  a  tender  interest  for  mashed  turnips 
and  boiled  mutton  ;  to  invest  my  breeches  with  pathos  ;  to 
communicate  an  air  of  mystery  to  my  coat  ( dash  its  but- 
tons ! ) ;  to  make  my  waistcoat  split  its  sides  with  jocularity ; 
or  so  to  treat  and  degrade  with  clumsy  joking,  anything 
natural  or  supernatural ;  to  make  a  farce  of  a  thunder 
storm,  or  a  tragedy  of  a  teapot :  but  shall  we  do  so  ?  Xo  ! 
m  the  name  of  honest  humor,  no  !  Suppose  Leslie  ( I  take 
him  as  the  finest  humorous  artist  in  England)  were  to 
make  the  chairs  and  tables  m  his  pictures  to  squint  at  you, 
and  set  the  tongs  and  pokers  grinning,  would  Sancho  and 
Don  Quixote  be  rendered  more  funny  by  these  foolish 
tricks  ?  Suppose  Avhen  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Keeley  want  to 
make  you  laugh  in  a  comedy,  they  were  to  order  all  the 
supernumeraries  to  rush  on  to  the  stage  and  squint  and 
grin ;  to  have  all  the  scenes  painted  with  goggle-eyed  cari- 
catures ;  and  all  the  fiddlers  imitating  the  squeaking  of 
pigs,  the  braying  of  donkeys,  or  what  not,  on  their  instru- 
ments, would  the  story  and  the  fun  of  the  play  be  more 
comprehensible  for  this  insane  interruption  ?  A  comic 
artist,  as  I  take  it,  has  almost  the  entire  range  of  thought 
to  play  upon ;  the  maddest  foolery  at  times  becomes  him 
perfectly  as  the  deepest  pathos;  but  this  systematic  fool- 
ing, this  dreary  cur-and-dry  fancy,  this  grinning  without  fun, 
makes  my  gorge  rise,  my  dear  Mr.  Yorke ;  and  I  protest, 
for  the  honor  of  the  Trade.  Mr.  Merryman  in  the  ring  is 
not  a  humorist,  but  a  poor,  half-witted  impostor  :  I  have 
my  own  opinion  of  a  fellow  who  deliberately  cuts  sham 
jokes.  They  should  come  from  a  humorist's  heart,  or  they 
are  but  acts  of  dishonesty  on  his  part  and  forgeries  on  the 

public. 

« 

In  respect  to  the  Drawing-Eoom  Scrap-Book.  As  the 
seaman  in  real  life  and  Cooper's  novels  knows,  by  the 
peculiar  gaff  in  her  binnacle,  the  luff  in  her  topsail-hal- 
yards, or  what  not,  his  old  ship,  the  "  Lively  Sally,"  though 
the  "  Mary  Anne "  is  now  painted  on  her  stern,  so  old 
critical  hands,  in  taking  up  Mr.  Fisher's  book,  recognize 
old  friends  with  new  titles  among  the  prints  —  old  pictures 
with  wonderful  subjects  marvellously  gathered  together 
from  all  quarters.  Pictorially,  the  Drawing-Eoom  Scrap- 
Book  is  a  sea-pie,  made  up  of  scraps  that  have  been  served 
at  many  tables  before.     Her  Majesty,  in   company  with 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     105 

Richard  Cobden  and  Charles  Villiers ;  the  Chinese  necro- 
mancers ;  Lord  Hardinge  Avelcoming  in  the  spring ;  Sir 
Robert  Sale  at  a  Spanish  bull-fight  in  the  Mocenigo  Palace. 
A  rich  and  wonderful  hash  indeed  ! 

The  fair  editor,  ]\Irs.  Norton,  has  been  painted  by  two 
artists  in  the  present  volume ;  by  ^Mr.  Carrick  on  ivor}-, 
and  by  Sir  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer  Lytton  in  a  kind  of 
verses,  against  which  we  put  a  strenuous  protest.  Sir 
Bulwer  calls  her  a  radiant  Stranger  —  a  spirit  of  the  Star, 
and  a  daughter  of  the  Beam,  with  a  large  B,  meaning  that 
there  is  something  quite  unearthly  in  the  appearance  of 
the  fair  editor  of  the  Drawing-Room  Scrap-Book  ;  that  it  is 
clear  to  Sir  Lytton's  perceptions  that  she  belongs  to  an- 
other orb,  in  which  he.  Sir  Edward  ( being  possibly  like- 
wise of  an  angelical  supernaturality  himself ),  has  made 
her  acquaintance.  He  states,  that  while  mere  mortals  have 
changes  of  comfort  and  care  in  life,  to  supernatural  beings, 
like  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Norton,  our  very  air  is  silent  pain 
—  a  heavy  pain ;  in  fact,  that  they  are  doomed  to  a  per- 
petual sadness,  under  the  never-ending  domination  of  the 
Old  Blue  Devil. 

Let  us  hope  that  tlie  statement  is  erroneous,  and  the 
pedigree  not  also  correct.  Over  the  very  verses  in  wliieh 
Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  makes  the  above  extraordinary 
assertions,  some  downright  prose  writer  says  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Norton  is  "Second  daughter  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  Esq.  (son 
of  the  Right  Hon.  R.  ?>.  Sheridan  and  his  first  wife,  the 
celebrated  Miss  Lindley)  and  Caroline  Henrietta  Callander, 
daughter  of  Colonel  Callander,  of  Craigforth,  and  Lady 
Elizabeth  MacDonnell.''  How  can  a  man,  in  the  face  of 
such  a  genealog}',  declare  that  ]\[rs.  Norton's  parent  was  a 
Beam,  with  a  large  B  ?  Isn't  the  prose-tree  a  sufficient 
pedigree  ?  Had  Genius  ever  a  directer  descent  ?  "  No 
human  beauty,"  says  the  baronet,  — 

'•  Xo  human  beauty  ever  bore 
An  aspect  thus  divine  : 
The  crown  tlie  brows  of  seraphs  wear, 

Hath  left  its  mark  on  thine, — 
The  unconscious  glories  round  thee,  bear 
The  stamp  divine 
Of  One  divine, 
Who  trod  the  spheres  of  yore." 

Come,  come,  Sir  Bulwer,  how  can  you  talk  to  a  lady  so  to 
her  face  ?     Whereabouts  have  you  seen  seraphs  and  their 


106      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

crowns  ?  When  made  acquaintance  witli  ones  divine  ? 
What  are  all  these  attitudes,  platitudes,  beatitudes  ?  Isn't 
a  woman  good  enough  for  you  that  inherits  Sheridan's 
genius  and  sweet  Cecilia's  eyes  and  voice,  but  you  must 
assume  an  inspired  air,  and  declare  she  is  a  stray  angel  ? 
In  the  picture  of  the  lady,  she  has  a  black  velvet  band 
round  her  forehead,  and  buttons  on  her  dress.  Fanc}^  an 
angel  in  buttons  !  No !  no  !  There's  some  error  in  the 
Bard's  (or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  the  Bart's)  description. 
This  sort  of  writing,  this  flimsy,  mystical,  namby  pamby, 
we  hold  to  be  dangerous  to  man  and  reprehensible  in 
Barts.  When  Irreverence  puts  on  a  sanctihed  look,  when 
May  fair  begins  to  have  revelations,  when  —  but  let  us  re- 
strain our  beautiful  and  outraged  feelings,  and  return  to 
the  matter  in  hand. 

The  fact  is,  then  (while  strenuously  denying  the  Beam 
in  Mrs.  Norton's  family -tree  —  indeed  it  is  the  big  B  buz- 
zing about  it  that  roused  the  critical  peevishness),  that 
though  we  fearlessly  assert  Mrs.  Norton  to  be  only  a 
woman,  and  always  a  woman,  Mr.  Carrick's  picture  no  more 
represents  her  magnificent  beauty  than  Mr.  Joseph  Hume 
resembles  Apollo.  To  have  seen  it  is  to  have  seen  some- 
thing in  history.  Would  you  not  like  to  have  seen  Helen 
or  Cleopatra,  Marie  Antoinette  (about  whose  beauty  we 
doubt  whether  the  late  Mr.  Burke  did  not  make  exag- 
gerated statements),  Fair  Rosamond,  or  the  Queen  of 
Prussia,  or  Fox's  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  or  that  sweet 
ancestor  of  Mrs.  Norton's  own,  who  smiles  on  Reynold's 
canvas  with  such  ravishing,  delicious  purity  —  the  charm- 
ing, charming  Lindley  ?  As  good  as  this  a  man  may  ha|)ly 
see,  this  very  season,  at  the  French  play.  There  these  eyes 
beheld  it ;  not  a  daughter  of  a  Beam  —  not  a  spirit  of  a  Star, 
but  a  woman  in  black,  with  buttons  —  those  very  buttons 
probably  —  only  a  woman.  Is  it  not  enough,  Sir  Lytton  ? 
Stars  and  Beams  !  —  buttons  and  buttonhooks  !  Quando 
invenies  parem  ?  In  our  presence  no  man  shall  call  such  a 
Avoman  a  Spirit  without  a  word  in  his  ear. 

And  now  to  speak  of  the  moral  part,  the  soul  above  but- 
tons. Of  all  the  genuine  poets  I  ever  —  but  perhaps  we 
had  best  not.  When  he  has  a  mind  to  pick  a  hole  in  a 
man's  coat,  who  so  active  and  mischievous  as  your  humble 
servant  ?  When  he  wishes  to  address  a  person  in  terms  of 
unbounded  laudation  and  respect,  this  present  critic  stut- 
ters and  bungles  most  awkwardly  —  makes  a  dash  for  his 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     107 

hat,  and  a  rush  out  of  the  room,  perfectly  overpowered  by 
modesty.  What  a  charuiing  characteristic  and  confession  ! 
But  did  we  pray  and  criticise,  dear  ^liss  S.,  m  early  days, 
when  we  went  to  hear  Pasta  sing  ?  Hearken  to  tiiis  sad 
tale  of  false  love  and  broken  vows :  — 

"  He  remembers  the  light  of  her  smile, — of  that  smile,  in  itself  a 

caress. 
So  warmly  and  softly  it  fell,  on  the  heart  it  was  willing  to  bless; 
He  remembers  the  touch  of  her  hand,  as  it  lay  gently  clasped  in  his 

own, 
And  he  crushes  the  flowers  which  she  gave,  and  bows  down  his  head 

with  a  groan. 
How  oft  in  the  twilight  of  eve,  — how  oft  in  the  glory  of  day,  — 
Hath  she  leaned  on  his  bosom  and  vowed—  the  vows  she  has  lived 

to  betray. 
Oh!  lovely  as  angels  above, — oh!  false  as  the  devils  below. 
Oh!  hope  that  seemed  more  than  divine,  —  oh!  fountain  of  fathom- 
less woe. 
How  couldst  thou  forsake  me!  —  Return,  —  return,  still  beloved,  as 

thou  art: 
Wide  open  yet  standeth  the  door  of  thy  home  in  this  desolate  heart: 
Return!  —  We  will  bury  the  past,  —  and  the  light  on  my  eyelids  shall 

beam 
With  the  rapture  of  one  who  at  dawn  breaks  the  spell  of  a  terrible 

dream! 
In  vain:  even  now,  while  I  reel, — blind,  helpless,  and  faint  with 

despair  — 
Thou  bendest  with  triumphs  to  hear  the  new  voice  that  whispers 

thee  fair. 
Oh!  fickle,  and  shallow,  and  cold  —  in  all  but  thy  fever  of  blood  — 
Unlit,  from  thy  nature,  to  cling  to  aught  that  was  earnest  and  good: 
Thy  love  was  an  instinct  of  sex;  it  palled,  when  thy  passion  was  o'er, 
Like  a  wild  bird  that  answers  in  spring  the  mate  it  remembers  no 

more. 
I  shame  that  a  creature  so  light  should  bid  me  thus  quiver  and 

bleed, — 
I  shame  to  have  leaned  and  been  pierced  by  my  trust  in  so  brittle  a 

reed, — 
I  scorn  thee!    Go  forth   to  the  world,  a  parade  of  thy  beauty  to 

make; 
Thrill,  fever,  and  madden  more  hearts;—  let  them  pine,  —  let  them 

die,  —  for  thy  sake! 
Let  them  yield  up  their  manhood  of  soul,  and  adore  their  ideal  in 

thee'. 
J  laugh,  as  thou  breathest  false  vows,  —  to  break  them  again,  as 

with  me; 
I  laugh,  as  they  anchor  their  hopes,  where  the  quicksand  forbids 

them  to  live; 
Will  they  glean  from  the  dregs  of  thy  heart  what  the  fresh  faith  of 

youtli  could  not  give  ? 
Let  them  sink,  let  them  perish,  —  like  me,  —  of  thy  smiles  and  thy 

glances  bereft,  — 
Yet,  if  thou  wert  in  sorrow  and  pain,  —  would  I  leave  thee,  —  as  I 

have  been  left  ?  " 


108      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Did  we  prate  and  criticise  when  we  heard  Pasta  sing  ? 
Didn't  you,  on  the  contrary,  come  closer  and  closer,  and 
sit  quite  silent,  and  listen  with  all  your  soul  ?  And  I'm 
not  sure  that  we  applauded  much  when  the  song  was  over. 
A  great  clapping  of  hands  is  but  a  coarse  sort  of  sympathy. 
We  applaud  in  that  way  when  a  musical  mountebank  spins 
down  the  scale,  or  leaps  astonishingly  over  a  bravura.  But 
before  a  great  artist  we  are  silent.  And  is  not  this  a  true 
poet  ?  What  a  mournful,  artless  beauty  is  here  !  What  a 
brooding,  tender  woman's  heart  ! 

What  has  struck  myself  and  Miss  Smith  with  especial 
admiration  in  these  songs  of  Mrs.  Norton  and  her  accom- 
plished sister,  Lady  Dufferin,  is  the  spontaneity  of  them. 
They  sing  without  labor,  like  birds  :  as  if  it  were  their 
nature :  — 

"  Pouring  their  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art!" 

There  is  something  surprising  in  the  faculty ;  and  one 
listens  with  charmed  astonishment  to  the  song,  sometimes 
gay,  often  sad,  always  tender  and  musical. 

I  have,  I  trust,  been  tolerably  ill-humored  hitherto  ;  but 
what  man  can  go  on  grumbling  in  the  presence  of  such  an 
angelical  spirit  as  Hans  Christian  Andersen  ?  Seeing  him 
praised  in  the  Athenceum  journal,  I  was  straight  put  away 
from  reading  a  word  of  Hans'  other  works  ;  and  it  was  only 
last  night,  when  going  to  bed,  perfectly  bored  with  the 
beef-fed  English  fairies,  their  hob-nailed  gambols,  and  ele- 
phantine friskiness,  his  Shoes  of  Fortune  and  his  Wonder- 
ful Stories  came  under  the  eyes  of  your  humble  servant. 
Heaven  bless  Hans  Christian  !  Here  are  fairies  !  Here  is 
fancy,  and  graceful  wit,  and  delicate  humor,  and  sweet, 
naive  kindness,  flowing  from  the  heart !  Here  is  frolic 
without  any  labor.  Here  is  admirable  fooling  without  any 
consciousness  or  degradation  !  Though  we  have  no  sort  of 
respect  for  a  great,  hulking,  whiskered,  red-faced,  middle- 
aged  man,  who  dresses  himself  in  a  pinafore  and  affects  to 
frolic  like  a  baby,  may  we  not  be  charmed  by  the  play 
prattle  of  a  child  ?  And  Hans  Christian  Andersen  so  af- 
fects me. 

Every  page  of  the  volumes  sparkles  with  delightful  grace 
and  genial  faucy.  Hans  and  you  are  friends  for  life  after 
an  hour's  talk  with  him.  I  shake  thy  hands,  Hans  Chris- 
tian, thou  kindly  prattler  and  warbler !     A  happy  Christ- 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     109 

mas  to  thee,  thou  happy-minded  Christian  I  You  smile, 
dear  Miss  Smith  !  When  we  become  acquainted  with  so 
delicate  and  charming  a  genius,  have  we  no  right  to  be 
thankful  ?  Yes  :  let  us  respect  every  one  of  those  friends 
whom  Heaven  has  sent  us,  — those  sweet  Christian  messen- 
gers of  peace  and  good-will. 

Do  you  remember  the  dainty  description  of  the  Prioress 
in  Chaucer  ?  It  has  lately  been  quoted  in  Leigh  Hunt's 
charming  volume  of  Wit  and  Humor,  and  concludes  with 
an  account  of  a  certain  talisman  this  delicate  creature 
wore,  — 

''  About  hire  arm  a  broche  of  golde  ful  sheue, 
On  whicli  was  first  ywritten  a  crouued  A, 
And  after  Amor  rincit  omnia.'^ 

The  works  of  tlie  real  humorist  always  have  this  sacred 
press  mark,  I  think.  Try  Shakespeare,  hrst  of  all :  Cer- 
vantes, Addison,  poor  Dick  Steele,  and  dear  Harry  Field- 
ing :  the  tender  and  delightful  Jean  Paul,  Sterne,  and 
Scott,  —  and  Love  is  the  humorist's  best  characteristic,  and 
gives  that  charming  ring  to  their  laughter  in  which  all  the 
good-natured  world  joins  in  chorus.  Foremost  of  all,  at 
present,  I  think  ]Mr.  Dickens  may  assume  the  Amor  and 
Crown  for  his  badge  and  cognizance.  His  humanity  has 
mastered  the  sympathy  of  almost  all :  of  wise  men,  of  dul- 
lards, of  all  sorts  of  honest  people.  He  makes  good  jokes, 
bad  jokes,  the  best  and  the  worst  jokes  indeed  possible. 
The  critics  fasten  on  the  latter  and  sneer :  the  public  sym- 
pathy kicks  the  flimsy  barriers  away,  and  pours  on.  The 
kindly  spirit  melts  all  critical  doubts.  Can  he  be  worth- 
less, or  a  sceptic,  in  wliom  all  the  world  is  putting  faith  — 
who  has  the  ear  of  all  England  —  who  has  done  so  much  to 
make  the  poor  known  to  the  rich,  and  reconcile  each  to  the 
other,  as  much  as  Hansard,  ay,  or  Exeter  Hall  ?  Is  this  a 
man  to  be  railed  at  by  his  literary  brethren  ?  In  the 
American  war  (this  is  an  historical  allegory),  the  man  who 
sneered  at  Washington  most,  was  that  brave  officer,  and 
spotless  patriot,  General  Arnold. 

If  I  judge  Mr.  Dickens's  present  volume  rightly,  it  has 
been  the  author's  aim,  not  to  produce  a  prose  tale  of 
mingled  fun  and  sadness,  and  a  close  imitation  of  life, 
but  a  prose  poem,  designed  to  awaken  emotions  tender, 
mirthful,  pastoral,  wonderful.  As  in  some  of  Mr.  Maclise's 
charming  designs  to  the  book,  the  costume  of  this  figure  is 


110      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

rather  a  hint  of  the  costume  of  the  last  century  than  a  por- 
trait of  it,  so  the  writer's  characters  seem  to  me  modified  — • 
prettified,  so  to  speak.  The  action  of  the  piece  you  see 
clearly  enough,  but  the  actors  speak  and  move  to  measure 
and  music.  The  drolls  are  more  violently  funny ;  the  seri- 
ous heroes  and  heroines  more  gracefully  and  faultlessly 
beautiful.  Such  figures  are  never  seen  among  real  country 
people.  Nor  more  are  Tityrus  and  Meliboeus  like,  or  Her- 
mann and  Dorothea  like,  or  Taglioni;  bounding  through 
air  in  gauze,  like  a  Scotch  peasant  girl.  Tityre  tu  patulae 
is  a  ballet  in  hexameters  ;  the  Sylphide,  a  poem  performed 
on  the  toes ;  these  charming  little  books  of  Mr.  Dickens's 
are  chorals  for  Christmas  executed  in  prose. 

Last  year  the  critics  were  specially  outraged  by  the 
famous  clock-and-kettle  overture  of  the  Christmas  piece. 
"  Is  this  truth,  is  this  nature  ?  "  cries  the  Cynic,  growling 
from  his  tub.  You  might  say.  Is  it  the  multiplication 
table,  or  is  it  the  po7is  asinorum  ?  It  is  not  intended  to  be 
true  or  natural,  as  I  hold ;  it  is  intended  to  be  a  brisk,  dash- 
ing, startling  caricature.  The  poet  does  not  want  you  to 
believe  him,  he  wants  to  provoke  your  mirth  and  wonder. 
He  is  appealing,  not  to  your  reason  and  feelings  as  in  a 
prose  narrative,  but  to  your  fancy  and  feelings.  He  peo- 
ples the  familiar  hearth  with  sprites,  and  the  church-tower 
with  goblins ;  all  the  commonest  objects  swarm  with  pre- 
ternatural life.  The  haymaker  has  convulsions,  the  warm- 
ing-pan is  vivified,  the  chairs  are  ambulatory,  and  the  poker 
writhes  with  life.  In  the  midst  of  these  wonders  goes  on 
a  little,  common,  kind-hearted,  tender,  every-day  story  of 
poverty  averted,  true  hearts  rewarded,  the  poor  loving  one 
another,  a  tyrant  grotesquely  punished.  It  is  not  much. 
But  in  these  performances  the  music  is  everything.  The 
Zauberflote  or  the  Barbiere  are  not  like  life  ;  mais ! 

That  is  why  we  lose  patience  or  affect  to  have  no  respect 
for  minor  performers.  Numbers  of  unknown  fiddlers,  hear- 
ing of  the  success  of  Mr.  Dickens's  opera,  rush  forward 
fiddle  in  hand,  of  the  very  same  shape  by  the  very  same 
maker.  "  Come  and  hear  our  partition,"  they  say ;  "  see 
how  we  have  set  the  Barber  to  music,  and  what  tunes  we 
make  Papanego  sing  !  "  Away  with  your  miserable  fiddle- 
sticks, misguided  people  !  You  play  after  such  a  master  ! 
You  take  a  bad  moment.  We  may  have  heard  some  indif- 
ferent music  from  this  composer,  and  some  very  weak  and 
bad  music  from  him  too  ;  but  we  have  had,  likewise,  strains 


A  GRUMBLE  ABOUT  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS.     HI 

so  delightful  and  noble,  specimens  of  skill  so  unapproach- 
able by  others,  that  we  protest  against  all  followers.  The 
grumbling  tit  seizes  on  me  again  as  I  think  of  them,  and  I 
long  for  some  one  to  devour. 

Ha!  what  have  we  here?  M.  A.  Titmarsh's  Christmas 
Book  —  ;Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball.  Dedicated  to  the  Mulligan 
of  BallymuUigan.  BallymuUigan  I  Ballyfiddlestick  !  Wliat, 
you,  too,  jNIr.  Titmarsh  ?  You,  you  sneering  wretch,  set- 
ting up  a  Christmas  book  of  your  own  ?  This,  then,  is  the 
meaning  of  your  savage  feelings  towards  "the  minor  tid- 
dlers ! "  Is  your  kit,  sirrah,  any  bigger  than  theirs  ?  You, 
who  in  the  columns  of  this  very  Magazine  have  sneered  at 
the  works  of  so  many  painters,  look  at  your  own  perform- 
ances! Some  of  your  folks  have  scarcely  more  legs  than 
Miss  Biffin  ;  they  have  fins  instead  of  hands  —  they  squint 
almost  every  one  of  them  I 

All  this  is  quite  true.  But  see  where  we  have  come  to ! 
to  the  very  last  page  of  the  very  last  sheet ;  and  the  writer 
is  called  upon  to  stop  just  at  the  very  moment  he  was 
going  to  cut  his  own  head  off. 

So  have  I  seen  ]\[r.  Clown  (in  that  Christmas  drama 
which  has  been  foremost  in  my  thoughts  during  all  the 
above  meditations)  set  up  the  gallows,  adjust  the  rope,  try 
the  noose  curiously,  and  —  tumble  head  over  heels. 


112      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


STRICTURES   ON   PICTURES. 

A  LETTER  FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO  TITMARSH,  ESQUIRE,  TO 
MONSIEUR  ANATOLE  VICTOR  ISIDOR  HYACINTHE  ACHILLE 
HERCULE  DE  BRICABRAC,  PEINTRE  d'hISTOIRE,  RUE 
MOUFFETARD,    A    PARIS. 

[Fraser^s  Magazine,  June,  1838.] 

Lord's  Hotel,  New  Street,  Co  vent  Garden: 
Tuesday,  15th  May. 

I  PROPOSE  to  be  both  learned  and  pleasant  in  my  remarks 
upon  the  exhibitions  here ;  for  I  know,  my  dear  Bricabrac, 
that  it  is  your  intention  to  translate  this  letter  into  French, 
for  the  benefit  of  some  of  your  countrymen,  who  are  anx- 
ious about  the  progress  of  the  fine  arts  —  when  I  say  some, 
I  mean  all,  for,  thanks  to  your  Government  patronage,  your 
magnificent  public  galleries,  and,  above  all,  your  delicious 
sky  and  sunshine,  there  is  not  a  scavenger  in  your  nation 
who  has  not  a  feeling  for  the  beauty  of  Nature,  which  is, 
my  dear  Anatole,  neither  more  nor  less  than  Art. 

You  know  nothing  about  art  in  this  country  —  almost  as 
little  as  we  know  of  French  art.  One  Gustave  Planche,  who 
makes  visits  to  London,  and  writes  accounts  of  pictures  in 
your  reviews,  is,  believe  me,  an  impostor.  I  do  not  mean 
a  private  impostor,  for  I  know  not  whether  Planche  is  a 
real  or  assumed  name,  but  simply  a  quack  on  matters  of 
art.  Depend  on  it,  my  dear  young  friend,  that  there  is 
nobody  like  Titmarsh :  you  will  learn  more  about  the  arts 
in  England  from  this  letter  than  from  anything  in  or  out 
of  print. 

Well,  then,  every  year,  at  the  commencement  of  this 
blessed  month  of  May,  wide  open  the  doors  of  three  picture 
galleries,  in  which  figure  all  the  works  of  genius  which  our 
brother  artists  have  j)roduced  during  the  whole  year.  I 
wish  you  could  see  my  historical  picture  of  "  Heliogabalus 
in  the  Ruins  of  Carthage,"  or  the  full-length  of  Sir  Samuel 
Hicks  and  his  Lady,  —  sitting  in  a  garden  light,  Lady  H. 
reading  the  ''  Book  of  Beauty,"  Sir  Samuel  catching  a  but- 
terfly which  is  settling  on  a  flower-pot.     This,  however,  is 


STRICTURES   ON  PICTURES.  113 

all  egotism.  I  ain  not  going  to  speak  of  my  works,  which 
are  pretty  well  known  in  Paris  already,  as  I  flatter  myself, 
but  of  other  artists  —  some  of  them  men  of  merit  —  as  well 
as  myself. 

Let  us  commence,  then,  with  the  commencement  —  the 
Ko3^al  Academy.  That  is  held  in  one  wing  of  a  little  build- 
ing like  a  gin-shop,  which  is  near  St.  Martin's  Church.  In 
the  other  wing  is  our  National  Gallery.  As  for  the  build- 
ing, you  must  not  take  that  as  a  specimen  of  our  skill  in 
the  hue  arts ;  come  down  the  Seven  Dials,  and  I  will  show 
you  many  modern  structures  of  which  the  architect  deserves 
far  higher  credit. 

But,  bad  as  the  place  is  —  a  pygmy  abortion,  in  lieu  of  a 
noble  monument  to  the  greatest  school  of  painting  in  the 
greatest  country  of  the  modern  world  (you  may  be  angry, 
but  I'm  right  in  both  cases)  —  bad  as  the  outside  is,  the 
interior,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  marvellously  pretty,  and 
convenient  for  the  reception  and  exhibition  of  the  pictures 
it  will  hold.  Since  the  old  pictures  have  got  their  new 
gallery,  and  their  new  scouring,  one  hardly  knows  them. 
0  Ferdinand,  Ferdinand,  that  is  a  treat,  that  National  Gal- 
lery, and  no  mistake  !  I  shall  write  to  you  fourteen  or 
fifteen  long  letters  about  it  some  da_y  or  other.  The  apart- 
ment devoted  to  the  Academy  exhibition  is  equally  commo- 
dious :  a  small  room  for  miniatures  and  aquarelles,  another 
for  architectural  drawings,  and  three  saloons  for  pictures  — 
all  very  small,  but  well  lighted  and  neat ;  no  interminable 
passage,  like  your  five  hundred  3-ards  at  the  Louvre,  with  a 
slippery  floor,  and  tiresome  straggling  cross-lights.  Let  us 
buy  a  catalogue,  and  walk  straight  into  the  gallery,  how- 
ever:—  we  have  been  a  long  time  talking,  de  omnibus  rebus, 
at  the  door. 

Look,  my  dear  Isidor,  at  the  first  names  in  the  catalogue, 
and  thank  your  stars  for  being  in  such  good  company.  Bless 
us  and  save  us,  what  a  power  of  knights  is  here ! 

Sir  William  Beechey. 

Sir  ]\Lartin  Shee. 

Sir  David  Wilkie. 

Sir  Augustus  Callcott. 

Sir  W.  J.  Xewton. 

Sir  Geoffrey  Wyattville. 

Sir  Francis  Chantrey. 

Sir  Richard  Westmacott. 

Sir  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  — 


114      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATUHE  AND  ART. 

not  yet,  that  is ;  but  I  shall  be,  in  course,  when  our  little 
liege  lady  —  Heaven  bless  her  !  —  has  seen  my  portrait  of 
Sir  Sam  and  Lady  Hicks. 

If  all  these  gentlemen  in  the  list  of  Academicians  and 
Associates  are  to  have  titles  of  some  sort  or  other,  I  should 
propose,  — 

1.  Baron  Briggs.  (At  the  very  least,  he  is  out  and  out 
the  best  portrait-painter  of  the  set.) 

2.  Daniel,  Prince  Maclise.  (His  Eoyal  Highness's 
pictures  place  him  very  near  to  the  throne  indeed.) 

3.  Edwin,  Earl  of  Landseer. 

4.  The  Lord  Charles  Landseer. 

5.  The  Duke  of  Etty. 

6.  Archbishop  Eastlake. 

7.  His  Majesty  KING  MULREADY. 

King  Mulready,  I  repeat,  in  double  capitals  ;  for  if  this 
man  has  not  the  crowning  picture  of  the  exhibition,  I  am 
no  better  than  a  Dutchman.  His  picture  represents  the 
"  Seven  Ages,"  as  described  by  a  poet  whom  you  have  heard 
of  —  one  Shakespeare,  a  Warwickshire  man :  and  there 
they  are,  all  together;  the  portly  justice  and  the  quarrel- 
some soldier ;  the  lover  leaning  apart,  and  whispering  sweet 
things  in  his  pretty  mistress's  ear;  the  baby  hanging  on  her 
gentle  mother's  bosom ;  the  schoolboy,  rosy  and  lazy ;  the 
old  man  crabbed  and  stingy ;  and  the  old  old  man  of  all,  sans 
teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  ears,  sans  everything  —  but  why  de- 
scribe them  ?  You  will  find  the  thing  bettei-  done  in  Shake- 
speare, or  possibly  translated  by  some  of  your  Frenchmen.  I 
can't  say  much  about  the  drawing  of  this  picture,  for  here 
and  there  are  some  queer-looking  limbs  ;  but  —  oh,  Anatole ! 
—  the  intention  is  godlike.  Not  one  of  those  figures  but 
has  a  grace  and  a  soul  of  his  own  :  no  conventional  copies  of 
the  stony  antique ;  no  distorted  caricatures,  like  those  of 
your  "classiques,"  David,  Girodet,  and  Co.  (the  impost- 
ors!)—  but  such  expressions  as  a  great  poet  would  draw, 
who  thinks  profoundly  and  truly,  and  never  forgets  (he 
could  not  if  he  would)  grace  and  beauty  withal.  The 
color  and  manner  of  this  noble  picture  are  neither  of  the 
Venetian  school,  nor  the  Florentine,  nor  the  English,  but 
of  the  Mulready  school.  Ah  !  my  dear  Floridor !  I  wish 
that  you  and  I,  ere  we  die,  may  have  erected  such  a  beauti- 
ful monument  to  hallow  and  perpetuate  our  names.  Our 
children  —  my  boy,  Sebastian  Piombo  Titmarsh  —  will  see 
this  picture  in  his  old  age,  hanging   by  the  side  of  the 


STRICTURES   ON  PICTURES.  115 

Kaffaelles  in  our  Xational  Gallery.  I  sometimes  fancy,  in 
the  presence  of  such  works  of  genius  as  this,  that  my  pic- 
ture of  Sir  Sam  and  Lady  Hicks  is  but  a  magnificent  error 
after  all,  and  that  it  will  die  away,  and  be  forgotten. 

To  this,  then,  of  the  whole  gallery,  I  accord  the  palm, 
and  cannot  refrain  from  making  a  little  sketch,  illustrative 
of  my  feelings. 

I  have  done  everything,  you  see,  very  accurately,  except 
Mr.  ;Mulready's  face ;  for,  to  say  truth,  I  never  saw  that 
gentleman,  and  have  no  idea  of  his  personal  appearance. 


N^ 


//       / 

TITMARSIl    I'LA(  lN(i    THK    LAUUKL-WKP: ATI!    OX    THE    BROWS 
OF    MULUEADY. 

Near  to  "  All  the  world's  a  stage  "  is  a  charming  picture, 
by  Archbishop  Eastlake ;  so  denominated  by  me,  because 
the  rank  is  very  respectable,  and  because  there  is  a  certain 
purity  and  religious  feeling  in  all  Mr.  Eastlake  does,  which 
eminently  entitles  him  to  the  honors  of  the  prelacy.  In 
this  picture,  Gaston  de  Foix  (he  whom  Titian  painted,  his 
mistress  buckling  on  his  armor)  is  parting  from  his  mis- 
tress. A  fair  peaceful  garden  is  round  about  them ;  and 
here  his  lady  sits  and  clings  to  him,  as  though  she  would 
cling  forever.  But,  look !  yonder  stands  the  page  and 
the  horse  pawing ;  and,  bej'ond  the  wall  which  bounds  the 
quiet  garden  and  flowers,  you  see  the  spears  and  pennons 
of  knights,  the  banners  of  King  Louis  and  De  Foix,  "  the 
thunderbolt  of  Italy."  Long  shining  rows  of  steel-clad 
men  are  marching  stately  by ;  and  with  them  must  ride 
Count  Gaston  —  to  conquer  and  die  at  Eavenna.  You  can 
read  his  history,  itij  dear  friend,  in  Lacretelle,  or  Bran- 
tome  ;  only,  perhaps,  not  so  well  expressed  as  it  has  just 
been  by  me. 


116      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Yonder  is  Sir  David  Wilkie's  grand  picture,  ''Queen 
Victoria  holding  her  First  CounciL"  A  marvellous  paint- 
ing, in  which  one  admires  the  richness  of  the  color,  the 
breadth  of  light  and  shadow,  the  graceful  dignity  and 
beauty  of  the  principal  figure,  and  the  extraordinary  skill 
with  which  all  the  figures  have  been  grouped,  so  as  to  pro- 
duce a  grand  and  simple  effect.  What  can  one  say  more, 
but  admire  the  artist  wdio  has  made,  out  of  such  unpoetical 
materials  as  a  table  of  red  cloth,  and  fifty  unoccupied  mid- 
dle-aged gentlemen,  a  beautiful  and  interesting  picture  ? 
Sir  David  has  a  charming  portrait,  too,  of  Mrs.  Maberly, 
in  dark  crimson  velvet,  and  delicate  white  hat  and  feath- 
ers :  a  marvel  of  color,  though  somewhat  askew  in  the 
drawing. 

The  Earl  of  Landseer's  best  picture,  to  my  thinking,  is 
that  which  represents  her  Majesty's  favorite  dogs  and 
parrot.     He  has,  in  painting,  an  absolute  mastery  over 

Olwvolal  Tfi  Traat  — 

that  is,  he  can  paint  all  manner  of  birds  and  beasts  as  no- 
body else  can.  To  tell  you  a  secret,  I  do  not  think  he 
understands  how  to  paint  the  great  beast,  man,  quite  so 
well ;  or,  at  least,  to  do  what  is  the  highest  quality  of  an 
artist,  to  place  a  soul  under  the  ribs  as  he  draws  them. 
They  are,  if  you  like,  the  most  dexterous  pictures  that 
ever  were  painted,  but  not  gi^eat  pictures.  I  would  much 
rather  look  at  yonder  rough  Leslie  than  at  all  the  wonder- 
ful painting  of  parrots  or  greyhounds,  though  done  to  a 
hair  or  a  feather. 

Leslie  is  the  only  man  in  this  country  who  translates 
Shakespeare  into  form  and  color.  Old  Shallow  and  Sir 
Hugh,  Slender  and  his  man  Simple,  pretty  Anne  Page  and 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  are  here  joking  with  the  fat 
knight;  who,  with  a  monstrous  gravity  and  profound  brazen 
humor,  is  narrating  some  tale  of  his  feats  with  the  wild 
Prince  and  Poins.  Master  Brooke  is  offering  a  tankard  to 
Master  Slender,  who  will  not  drink,  forsooth. 

This  picture  is  executed  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  and 
almost  rudeness ;  but  is  charming,  from  its  great  truth  of 
effect  and  expression.  Wilkie's  pictures  (in  his  latter 
style)  seem  to  begin  where  Leslie's  end ;  the  former's 
men  and  women  look  as  if  the  bodies  had  been  taken  out  of 


STRICTURES    OX   PICTURES.  117 

them,  and  only  the  surface  left.  Lovely  as  the  Queen's 
figure  iSj  for  instance,  it  looks  like  a  spirit,  and  not  a 
woman ;  one  may  almost  see  through  her  into  the  waist- 
coat of  Lord  Lansdowne,  and  so  on  through  the  rest  of  the 
transparent  heroes  and  statesmen  of  the  company. 

Opposite  the  Queen  is  another  charming  performance  of 
Sir  David  —  a  bride  dressing,  amidst  a  rout  of  bridesmaids 
and  relations.  Some  are  crying,  some  are  smiling,  some 
are  pinning  her  gown  ;  a  back  door  is  open,  and  a  golden 
sun  shines  into  the  room  which  contains  a  venerable-look- 
ing bed  and  tester,  probably  that  in  which  the  dear  girl  is 
to  —  hwi  imrlons  cVautres  chases.  The  color  of  this  picture 
is  delicious,  and  the  effect  faultless :  Sir  David  does  every- 
thing for  a  picture  nowadays  but  the  drawing.  Who 
knows  ?     Perhaps  it  is  as  well  left  out. 

Look  yonder,  down  to  the  ground,  and  admire  a  most 
beautiful  fantastic  Ariel. 

''  On  the  bat's  back  do  I  lly. 
After  sunset  merrily." 

Merry  Ariel  lies  at  his  ease,  and  whips  with  gorgeous  pea- 
cock's feather  his  courser,  flapping  lazy  through  the  golden 
evening  sky.  This  exquisite  little  picture  is  the  work  of 
Mr.  Severn,  an  artist  who  has  educated  his  taste  and  his 
hand  in  the  early  Roman  school.  He  has  not  the  dash  and 
dexterity  of  the  latter  which  belong  to  some  of  our  painters, 
but  he  possesses  that  solemn  earnestness  and  simplicity  of 
mind  and  purpose  which  make  a  religion  of  art,  and  seem 
to  be  accorded  only  to  a  few  in  our  profession.  I  have 
heard  a  pious  pupil  of  ^Ir.  Ingres  (the  head  of  your  acad- 
emy at  Kome)  aver  stoutly,  that,  in  matters  of  art,  Titian 
was  Antichrist,  and  Rubens,  ^[artin  Luther.  They  came 
with  their  brilliant  colors  and  dashing  worldly  notions, 
upsetting  that  beautiful  system  of  faith  in  which  art  had 
lived  hitherto.  Portraits  of  saints  and  martyrs,  with  pure 
eyes  turned  heavenward;  and  (as  all  true  sanctity  will) 
making  those  pure  who  came  within  their  reach,  now  gave 
wa}^  to  wicked  likenesses  of  men  of  blood,  or  dangerous, 
devilish,  sensual  portraits  of  tempting  women.  Before 
Titian,  a  picture  was  the  labor  of  years.  Why  did  this 
reformer  ever  come  among  us,  and  show  how  it  might  be 
done  in  a  day?  He  drove  the  good  angels  away  from 
painters'  easels,  and  called  down  a  host  of  voluptuous 
spirits  instead,  who  ever  since  have  held  the  mastery 
there. 


118      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

Only  a  few  artists  of  our  country  (none  in  yours,  where 
the  so-called  Catholic  school  is  a  mere  theatrical  folly), 
and  some  among  the  Germans,  have  kept  to  the  true  faith, 
and  eschewed  the  temptations  of  Titian  and  his  like.  Mr. 
Eastlake  is  one  of  these.  Who  does  not  recollect  his  por- 
trait of  Miss  Bury?  Not  a  simple  woman  —  the  lovely 
daughter  of  the  authoress  of  "  Love,"  "  Flirtation,"  and 
other  remarkable  works  —  but  a  glorified  saint.  Wlio  does 
not  remember  his  Saint  Sebastian  ;  his  body  bare,  his  eyes 
cast  melancholy  down ;  his  limbs,  as  yet  untouched  by  the 
arrows  of  his  persecutors,  tied  to  the  fatal  tree  ?  Those 
two  pictures  of  Mr.  Eastlake  would  merit  to  hang  in  a  gal- 
lery where  there  were  only  Raffaelles  besides.  Mr.  Severn 
is  another  of  the  school.  I  don't  know  what  hidden  and 
indefinable  charm  there  is  in  his  simple  pictures;  but  I 
never  can  look  at  them  without  a  certain  emotion  of  awe 
—  without  that  thrill  of  the  heart  with  which  one  hears 
country  children  sing  the  Old  Hundredth,  for  instance. 
The  singers  are  rude,  perhaps,  and  the  voices  shrill ;  but  the 
melody  is  still  pure  and  godlike.  Some  such  majestic  and 
pious  harmony  is  there  in  these  pictures  of  Mr.  Severn. 
Mr.  Mulready's  mind  has  lately  gained  this  same  kind  of 
inspiration.  I  know  no  one  else  who  possesses  it,  except, 
perhaps,  myself.  Without  flattery,  I  may  say  that  my  pic- 
ture of  "  Heliogabalus  at  Carthage  "  is  not  in  the  popular 
taste,  and  has  about  it  some  faint  odor  of  celestial  incense. 

Do  not,  my  dear  Anatole,  consider  me  too  great  an  ass 
for  persisting  upon  this  point,  and  exemplifying  Mr. 
Severn's  picture  of  the  "  Crusaders  catching  a  First  View 
of  Jerusalem "  as  an  instance.  Godfrey  and  Tancred, 
Raymond  and  Ademar,  Beamond  and  Rinaldo,  with  Peter 
and  the  Christian  host,  behold  at  length  the  day  dawning. 

"E  quando  il  sol  gli  aridi  campi  fiede 

Con  raggi  assai  ferventi,  e  in  alto  sorge; 

Ecco  apparir  Gerusalem  si  vede, 
Ecce  additar  Gerusalem  si  scorge, 

Ecco  da  mille  voci  unitamente 

Gerusaleinme  salutar  si  sente!  " 

Well,  Godfrey  and  Tancred,  Peter,  and  the  rest,  look 
like  little  wooden  dolls ;  and  as  for  the  horses  belonging  to 
the  crusading  cavalry,  I  have  seen  better  in  gingerbread. 
But,  what  then  ?  There  is  a  higher  ingredient  in  beauty 
than  mere  form ;  a  skilful  hand  is  only  the  second  artisticai 


STRICTURES   ON  PICTURES.  119 

quality,  worthless,  my  Anatole,  without  the  first,  which  is 
a  great  heart.  This  picture  is  beautiful,  in  spite  of  its  de- 
fects, as  many  women  are.  Mrs.  Titmarsh  is  beautiful, 
though  she  weighs  nineteen  stone. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  religious  pictures,  what  shall  I 
say  of  Mr.  Ward's  ?  Anything  so  mysteriously  hideous 
was  never  seen  before  now ;  they  are  worse  than  all  the 
horrors  in  your  Spanish  Gallery  at  Paris.  As  Eastlake's 
are  of  the  Catholic,  these  may  be  called  of  the  Muggleto- 
nian  school  of  art;  monstrous,  livid,  and  dreadful  as  the 
dreams  of  a  man  in  the  scarlet  fever.  I  would  much 
sooner  buy  a  bottled  baby  with  two  heads  as  a  pleasing 
ornament  for  my  cabinet ;  and  should  be  afraid  to  sit  alone 
in  a  room  with  "  ignorance,  envy,  and  jealousy  tilling  the 
throat,  and  widening  the  mouth  of  calumny  endeavoring  to 
bear  down  truth  !  " 

Mr.  Maclise's  picture  of  '•  Christmas  "  you  will  find  ex- 
cellently described  in  the  May  number  of  a  periodical  of 
much  celebrity  among  us,  called  Frasers  Magazine.  Since 
the  circulation  of  that  miscellany  is  almost  as  extensive  in 
Paris  as  in  London,  it  is  needless  in  this  letter  to  go  over 
beaten  ground,  and  speak  at  length  of  the  plot  of  this 
remarkable  picture.  There  are  five  hundred  merry  figures 
painted  on  this  canvas,  gobbling,  singing,  kissing,  carous- 
ing. A  line  of  jolly  serving  men  troop  down  the  hall 
stairs,  and  bear  the  boar's  head  in  procession  up  to  the 
dais,  where  sits  the  good  old  English  gentleman,  and  his 
guests  and  famil}- ;  a  set  of  mummers  and  vassals  are 
crowded  round  a  table  gorging  beef  and  wassail ;  a  bevy  of 
blooming  girls  and  young  men  are  huddled  in  a  circle,  and 
play  at  hunt  the  slipper.  Of  course,  there  are  plenty  of 
stories  told  at  the  huge  hall  fire,  and  kissing  under  the 
glistening  mistletoe-bough.  But  I  wish  you  could  see  the 
wonderful  accuracy  with  which  all  these  figures  are  drawn, 
and  the  extraordinary  skill  with  which  the  artist  has  man- 
aged to  throw  into  a  hundred  different  faces  a  hundred 
different  characters  and  individualities  of  joy.  Every  one 
of  these  little  people  is  smiling,  but  each  has  his  own  par- 
ticular smile.  As  for  the  coloring  of  the  picture,  it  is, 
between  ourselves,  atrocious ;  but  a  man  cannot  have  all 
the  merits  at  once.  ^Ir.  Maclise  has  for  his  share,  humor 
such  as  few  painters  ever  possessed,  and  a  power  of  draw- 
ing such  as  never  Avas  possessed  by  anu  other  ;  no,  not  by 
one,  from  Albert  Diirer  downwards.     His  scene  from  the 


120       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

"  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  is  equally  charming.  Moses's  shin- 
ing grinning  face  ;  the  little  man  in  red  who  stands  on  tip- 
toe, and  painfully  scrawls  his  copy  ;  and  the  youngest  of 
the  family  of  the  Primroses,  who  learns  his  letters  on  his 
father's  knee,  are  perfect  in  design  and  expression.  What 
miglit  not  this  man  do,  if  he  would  read  and  meditate  a 
little,  and  profit  by  the  works  of  men  whose  taste  and  edu- 
cation were  superior  to  his  own. 

Mr.  Charles  Landseer  has  two  tableaux  de  genre,  which 
possess  very  great  merit.  His  characters  are  a  little  too 
timid,  perhaps,  as  Mr.  Maclise's  are  too  bold ;  but  the  fig- 
ures are  beautifully  drawn,  the  coloring  and  effect  excel- 
lent, and  the  accessories  2:)ainted  with  great  faithfulness 
and  skill.  "  The  Parting  Benison  "  is,  perhaps,  the  more 
interesting  picture  of  the  two. 

And  now  we  arrive  at  Mr.  Etty,  whose  rich,  luscious 
pencil  has  covered  a  hundred  glowing  canvases,  which 
every  painter  must  love.  I  don't  know  whether  the  Duke 
has  this  year  produced  anything  which  one  might  have 
expected  from  a  man  of  his  rank  and  consequence.  He 
is,  like  great  men,  lazy,  or  indifferent,  perhaps,  about  pub- 
lic approbation ;  and  also,  like  great  men,  somewhat  too 
luxurious  and  fond  of  pleasure.  For  instance,  here  is  a 
picture  of  a  sleepy  nymph,  most  richly  painted ;  but 
tipsy-looking,  coarse,  and  so  naked  as  to  be  unfit  for  ap- 
pearance among  respectable  people  at  an  exhibition.  You 
will  understand  what  I  mean.  There  are  some  figures 
without  a  rag  to  cover  them,  which  look  modest  and  decent 
for  all  that ;  and  others,  which  may  be  clothed  to  the  chin, 
and  yet  are  not  fit  for  modest  eyes  to  gaze  on.  Verbum  sat 
—  this  naughty  "  Somnolency  "  ought  to  go  to  sleep  in  her 
night-gown. 

But  here  is  a  far  nobler  painting,  —  the  Prodigal  kneel- 
ing down  lonely  in  the  stormy  evening,  and  praying  to 
Heaven  for  pardon.  It  is  a  grand  and  touching  picture ; 
and  looks  as  large  as  if  the  three-foot  canvas  had  been 
twenty.  His  wan  wretched  figure  and  clasped  hands  are 
lighted  up  by  the  sunset ;  the  clouds  are  livid  and  heavy  ; 
and  the  wind  is  howling  over  the  solitary  common,  and 
numbing  the  chill  limbs  of  the  poor  wanderer.  A  goat 
and  a  boar  are  looking  at  him  with  horrid  obscene  eyes. 
They  are  the  demons  of  Lust  and  Gluttony,  which  have 
brought  him  to  this  sad  pass.  And  there  seems  no  hope, 
no  succor,  no  ear  for  the  prayer  of  this  wretched,  wayworn, 


STRICTURES   ON  PICTURES.  121 

miserable  man  who  kneels  there  alone,  shuddering.  Only 
above,  in  the  gusty  blue  sky,  you  see  a  glistening,  peaceful 
silver  star,  which  points  to  home  and  hope,  as  clearly  as 
if  the  little  star  were  a  signpost,  and  home  at  the  very 
next  turn  of  the  road. 

Away,  then,  0  conscience-stricken  prodigal  !  and  you 
shall  find  a  good  father,  who  loves  you ;  and  an  elder 
brother,  who  hates  you  —  but  never  mind  that ;  and  a  dear, 
kind,  stout,  old  mother,  who  liked  you  twice  as  well  as  the 
elder,  for  all  his  goodness  and  psalm-singing,  and  has  a  tear 
and  a  prayer  for  j'ou  night  and  morning ;  and  a  pair  of 
gentle  sisters,  maybe  ;  and  a  poor  young  thing  down  in  the 
village,  who  has  never  forgotten  your  walks  in  the  quiet 
nut-woods,  and  the  birds'  nests  you  brought  her,  and  the 
big  boy  you  thrashed,  because  he  broke  the  eggs  :  he  is 
squire  now,  the  big  boy,  and  would  marry  her,  but  she  will 
not  have  him  —  not  she!  —  her  thoughts  are  with  her 
dark-eyed,  bold-browed,  devil-may-care  playmate,  who 
swore  she  should  be  his  little  wife — and  then  went  to 
college  —  and   then   came   back   sick  and   changed  —  and 

then  got  into  debt  —  and  then But  never  mind,  man  I 

down  to  her  at  once.  She  will  pretend  to  be  cold  at  first, 
and  then  shiver  and  turn  red  and  deadly  pale  ;  and  then 
she  tumbles  into  your  arms,  with  a  gush  of  sweet  tears,  and 
a  pair  of  rainbows  in  her  soft  eyes,  welcoming  the  sunshine 
back  to  her  bosom  again!  To  her,  man  !  —  never  fear, 
miss  !  Hug  him,  and  kiss  him,  as  though  you  would  draw 
the  heart  from  his  lips. 

When  she  has  done,  the  poor  thing  falls  stone-pale  and 
sobbing  on  young  Prodigal's  shoulder ;  and  he  carries  her 
quite  gently,  to  that  old  bench  where  he  carved  her  name 
fourteen  years  ago,  and  steals  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
kisses  her  hand,  and  soothes  her.  Then  comes  out  the  poor 
widow,  her  mother,  who  is  pale  and  tearful  too,  and  tries  to 
look  cold  and  unconcerned.  She  kisses  her  daughter,  and 
leads  her  trembling  into  the  house.  "You  will  come  to  us 
to-morrow,  Tom  ? "'  says  she,  as  she  takes  his  hand  at 
the  gate. 

To-viorroic !  To  be  sure  he  will;  and  this  very  night, 
too,  after  supper  with  the  old  people.  (Young  Squire 
Prodigal  never  sups ;  and  has  found  out  that  he  must  ride 
into  town,  to  arrange  about  a  missionary  meeting  with  the 
Keverend  Doctor  Slackjaw.)  To  be  sure  Tom  Prodigal 
will  go  :  the  moon  will  be  up,  and  who  knows  but  Lucy  may 


122      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

be  looking  at  it  about  twelve  o'clock.  At  one,  back  trots 
the  young  squire,  and  he  sees  two  people  whispering  at  a 
window  ;  and  he  gives  something  very  like  a  curse,  as  he 
digs  into  the  ribs  of  his  mare,  and  canters,  clattering,  down 
the  silent  road. 

Yes  —  but,  in  the  mean  time,  there  is  the  old  housekeeper, 
with  "  Lord  bless  us  !  "  and  "  Heaven  save  us  !  "  and  "Who'd 
have  thought  ever  again  to  see  his  dear  face  ?  And  master 
to  forget  it  all,  who  swore  so  dreadful  that  he  would  never 
see  him  !  —  as  for  missis,  she  always  loved  him.^'  There,  I 
say,  is  the  old  housekeeper,  logging  the  fire,  airing  the 
sheets,  and  flapping  the  feather  beds  —  for  Master  Tom's 
room  has  never  been  used  this  many  a  day ;  and  the  young 
ladies  have  got  some  flowers  for  his  chimney-piece,  and 
put  back  his  mother's  portrait,  which  they  have  had  in 
their  room  ever  since  he  went  away  and  forgot  it,  woe  is 
me  !  And  old  John,  the  butler,  coachman,  footman,  valet, 
factotum,  consults  with  master  about  supper. 

"  What  can  we  have  ?  "  says  master ;  "  all  the  shops  are 
shut,  and  there's  nothing  in  the  house." 

JoJin.  —  "No,  no  more  there  isn't;  only  Guernsey's  calf. 
Butcher  kill'd'n  yasterday,  as  your  honor  knowth." 

Master.  —  "  Come,  John,  a  calf's  enough.  Tell  the  cook 
to  send  us  up  that.^' 

And  he  gives  a  hoarse  haw !  haw  !  at  his  wit ;  and  Mrs. 
Prodigal  smiles  too,  and  says,  "  Ah,  Tom  Prodigal,  you  were 
always  a  merry  fellow  !  " 

Well,  John  Footman  carries  down  the  message  to  cook, 
who  is  a  country  wench,  and  takes  people  at  their  word  j 
and  what  do  you  think  she  sends  up  ? 

Top  Dish. 
Fillet  of  veal,  and  bacon  on  the  side-table. 

Bottom  Dish. 
Roast  ribs  of  veal. 

In  the  Middle. 

Calves' -head  soup  (a  la  tortue). 
Veal  broth. 

Between. 

Boiled  knuckle  of  veal,  and  parsley  sauce. 

Stewed  veal,  with  brown  sauce  and  forced-meat  balls. 


I 


STRICTURES   OX  PICTURES.  123 

Entremets. 

Veal  olives  (for  sauce,  see  stewed  veal). 

Veal  cutlets  (pnnees,  sauce  piquante). 

Ditto  (en  papillate). 

Scotch  collops. 

Fricandeau  of  veal  (pique  au  lard  a  la  rhicoree). 

Minced  veal. 

Blanquet  of  veal. 

Second  Course. 

Curry  of  calves' -head. 
Sweetbreads. 
Calves' -foot  jelly. 

See,  my  dear  Anatole,  what  a  world  of  thought  can  be 
conjured  up  out  of  a  few  inches  of  painted  canvas. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  great  and  crowning  picture  of 
the  exhibition,  my  own  historical  piece,  namely,  "  Helioga- 
balus  in  the  Kuins  of  Carthage.'*  In  this  grand  and 
finished  perform 

Mr.  Titmarsh's  letter  stops,  unfortunately,  here.  We 
found  it,  at  midnight,  the  15th-lGth  May,  in  a  gutter  of 
Saint  Martin's  Lane,  whence  a  young  gentleman  had  been 
just  removed  by  the  police.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  in- 
toxication could  be  his  only  cause  for  choosing  such  a 
sleeping-place,  at  such  an  hour ;  and  it  had  probably  com- 
menced as  he  was  writing  the  above  fragment.  We  made 
inquiries  at  Lord's  Coffee  House,  of  jNIr.  ^loth  (who,  from 
being  the  active  and  experienced  head  waiter,  is  now  the 
obliging  landlord  of  that  establishment),  and  were  told 
that  a  gentleman  unknown  had  dined  there  at  three,  and 
had  been  ceaselessly  occupied  in  writing  and  drinking  until 
a  quarter  to  twelve,  when  he  abruptly  left  the  house.  Mr. 
^loth  regretted  to  add,  that  the  stranger  had  neglected  to 
pay  for  thirteen  glasses  of  gin  and  water,  half  a  pint  of 
porter,  a  bottle  of  soda-water,  and  a  plate  of  ham  sand- 
wiches, which  he  had  consumed  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

We  have  paid  ]\Ir.  ]Moth  (whose  very  moderate  charges, 
and  excellent  stock  of  wines  and  spirits,  cannot  be  too 
highly  commended),  and  shall  gladly  hand  over  to  Mr.  Tit- 
marsh  the  remaining  sum  which  is  his  due.  Has  he  any 
more  of  his  rhapsody  ?  —  0.  Y. 


124      CRITICISMS    IN  LITEBATUEE  AND  ART 


A   SECOND    LECTURE    ON   THE    FINE    ARTS,   BY 
MICHAEL   ANGELO   TITMARSH,    ESQUIRE. 

THE    EXHIBITIONS. 

{Fraser^s  Magazine,  June,  1838.] 

Jack  Straw's  Castle,  Hampstead. 

Mij  dear  Bvicahrac,  —  You,  of  course,  remember  the  letter 
on  the  subject  of  our  exhibitions  which  I  addressed  to  you 
this  time  last  year.  As  you  are  now  lying  at  the  Hotel 
Dieu,  wounded  during  the  late  unsuccessful  emeute  (which 
I  think,  my  dear  friend,  is  the  seventeenth  you  have  been 
engaged  in),  and  as  the  letter  which  I  wrote  last  year  was 
received  with  unbounded  applause  by  the  people  here,  and 
caused  a  sale  of  three  or  four  editions  of  this  Magazine,  I 
cannot  surely,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  do  better  than  send  you 
another  sheet  or  two,  which  may  console  you  under  your 
present  bereavement,  and  at  the  same  time  amuse  the 
British  public,  who  now  know  their  friend  Titmarsh  as  well 
as  you  in  France  know  that  little  scamp  Thiers. 

AVell,  then,  from  "Jack  Straw^'s  Castle,"  an  hotel  on 
Hampstead's  breezy  heath,  which  Keats,  Wordsworth, 
Leigh  Hunt,  F.  W.  N.  Bayley,  and  others  of  our  choicest 
spirits,  have  often  patronized,  and  a  heath  of  which  every 
pool,  bramble,  furze-bush-with-clothes-hanging-on-it-to-dry, 
steep,  stock,  stone,  tree,  lodging-house,  and  distant  gloomy 
background  of  London  city,  or  bright  green  stretch  of  sun- 
shiny Hertfordshire  meadows,  has  been  depicted  by  our 
noble  English  landscape-painter.  Constable,  in  his  own  Con- 
stabulary way  —  at  "  Jack  Straw's  Castle,"  I  say,  where  I 
at  this  present  moment  am  located  (not  that  it  matters  in 
the  least,  but  the  world  is  always  interested  to  know  where 
men  of  genius  are  accustomed  to  disport  themselves),  I 
cannot  do  better  than  look  over  the  heap  of  picture-gallery 
catalogues  which  I  brought  with  me  from  London,  and  com- 
municate to  you,  my  friend  in  Paris,  my  remarks  thereon. 

A  man  with  five  shillings  to  spare  may  at  this  present 


A   SECOND  LECTURE   ON  THE    FINE  ARTS.     125 

moment  half  kill  himself  with  pleasure  in  London  town, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pall  Mall,  by  going  from  one 
picture  gallery  to  another,  and  examining  the  beauties  and 
absurdities  which  are  to  be  found  in  each.  There  is  first 
the  National  Gallery  (entrance  nothing),  in  one  wing  of 
the  little  gin-shop  of  a  building  so  st^'led  near  Saint  Mar- 
tin's Church  ;  in  another  wing  is  the  exhibition  of  the 
Koyal  Academy  (entrance,  one  shilling;  catalogue,  one 
ditto).  After  having  seen  this,  you  come  to  the  Water- 
Color  Exhibition  in  Pall  Mall  East ;  th:n  to  the  Gallery  in 
Suffolk  Street ;  and,  finally,  to  the  New  Water-Color  So- 
ciety in  Pall  ]\rall,  —  a  prett}-  room,  which  formerly  used 
to  be  a  gambling-house,  where  man}-  a  bout  of  seven's-the- 
main,  and  iced  champagne,  has  been  had  by  the  dissipated 
in  former  days.  All  these  collections  (all  the  modern  ones, 
that  is)  deserve  to  be  noticed,  and  contain  a  deal  of  good, 
bad,  and  indifferent  wares,  as  is  the  way  with  all  other  in- 
stitutions in  this  wicked  world. 

Commeu^'ons  done  avec  le  commencement — with  the  exhi- 
bition of  the  Royal  Academy,  which  consists,  as  everybody 
knows,  of  thirty-eight  knight  and  esquire  Academicians, 
and  nineteen  simple  and  ungenteel  Associates,  who  have 
not  so  much  as  a  shabby  ^Mister  before  their  names.  I 
recollect  last  year  facetiously  ranging  these  gentlemen  in 
rank  according  to  what  I  conceived  to  be  their  merits,  — 
King  Mulready,  Prince  ]\Iaclise,  Lord  Landseer,  Archbishop 
Eastlake  (according  to  the  best  of  my  memory,  for  '•  Jack 
Straw,"  strange  to  sa}',  does  not  take  in  Fraser^s  Magazine), 
and  so  on.  At  present,  a  great  number  of  new-comers,  not 
Associates  even,  ought  to  be  elevated  to  these  aristocratic 
dignities  ;  and,  perhaps,  the  order  ought  to  be  somewhat 
changed.  There  are  many  more  good  pictures  (here  and 
elsewhere)  than  there  were  last  year.  A  great  stride  has 
been  taken  in  matters  of  art,  my  dear  friend.  The  young 
painters  are  stepping  forward.  Let  the  old  fogies  look  to 
it ;  let  the  old  Academic  Olympians  beware,  for  there  are 
fellows  among  the  rising  race  who  bid  fair  to  oust  them 
from  sovereignty.  They  have  not  yet  arrived  at  the  throne, 
to  be  sure,  but  they  are  near  it.  The  lads  are  not  so  good 
as  the  best  of  the  Academicians  ;  but  many  of  the  Aca- 
demicians are  infinitely  worse  than  the  lads,  and  are  old, 
stupid,  and  cannot  improve,  as  the  younger  and  more 
active  painters  will. 

If  you  are  particularly  anxious  to  know  what  is  the  best 


126      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

picture  in  the  room,  not  the  biggest  (Sir  David  Wilkie's  is 
the  biggest,  and  exactly  contrary  to  the  best),  I  must  re- 
quest you  to  turn  your  attention  to  a  noble  river-piece  by 
J.  W.  M.  Turner,  Esquire,  R.A.,  "The  Fighting  Teme- 
raire'^  —  as  grand  a  painting  as  ever  figured  on  the  walls 
of  any  Academy,  or  came  from  the  easel  of  any  painter. 
The  old  Temeraire  is  dragged  to  her  last  home  by  a 
little,  spiteful,  diabolical  steamer.  A  mighty  red  sun, 
amidst  a  host  of  flaring  clouds,  sinks  to  rest  on  one  side  of 
the  picture,  and  illumines  a  river  that  seems  interminable, 
and  a  countless  navy  that  fades  away  into  such  a  wonder- 
ful distance  as  never  was  painted  before.  The  little  demon 
of  a  steamer  is  belching  out  a  volume  (why  do  I  say  a 
volume  ?  not  a  hundred  volumes  could  express  it)  of  foul, 
lurid,  red-hot,  malignant  smoke,  paddling  furiously,  and 
lashing  up  the  water  round  about  it ;  while  behind  it  (a 
cold  gray  moon  looking  down  on  it),  slow,  sad,  and  majestic, 
follows  the  brave  old  ship,  with  death,  as  it  were,  written 
on  her.  I  think,  my  dear  Bricabrac  (although,  to  be  sure, 
your  nation  would  be  somewhat  offended  by  such  a  collec- 
tion of  trophies),  that  we  ought  not,  in  common  gratitude, 
to  sacrifice  entirely  these  noble  old  champions  of  ours,  but 
that  we  should  have  somewhere  a  museum  of  their  skele- 
tons, which  our  children  might  visit,  and  think  of  the  brave 
deeds  which  were  done  in  them.  The  bones  of  the 
Agamemnon  and  the  Caxjtain^  the  Vanguard,  the  Culloden, 
and  the  Victory,  ought  to  be  sacred  relics,  for  Englishmen 
to  worship  almost.  Think  of  them  when  alive,  and  brav- 
ing the  battle  and  the  breeze,  they  carried  Nelson  and  his 
heroes  victorious  by  the  Cape  of  Saint  Vincent,  in  the 
dark  waters  of  Aboukir,  and  through  the  fatal  conflict  of 
Trafalgar.  All  these  things,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  are,  you 
will  say,  absurd,  and  not  to  the  purpose.  Be  it  so  ;  but 
Bo\vbellites  as  we  are,  we  Cockneys  feel  our  hearts  leap  up 
when  we  recall  them  to  memory ;  and  every  clerk  in 
Threadneedle  Street  feels  the  strength  of  a  Nelson,  when 
he  thinks  of  the  mighty  actions  performed  by  him. 

It  is  absurd,  you  will  say  (and  with  a  great  deal  of 
reason),  for  Titmarsh,  or  any  other  Briton,  to  grow  so 
poetically  enthusiastic  about  a  four-foot  canvas,  represent- 
ing a  ship,  a  steamer,  a  river,  and  a  sunset.  But  herein 
surely  lies  the  power  of  the  great  artist.  He  makes  you  see 
and  think  of  a  great  deal  more  than  the  objects  before  you ; 
he  knows  how  to  soothe  or  intoxicate,  to  fire  or  to  depress 


A  SECOXD  LECTURE  ON   THE  FINE  ARTS.     127 

by  a  few  notes,  or  forms,  or  colors,  of  which  we  cannot  trace 
the  effect  to  the  source,  but  only  acknowledge  the  power. 
I  recollect  some  years  ago,  at  the  theatre  at  Weimar,  hear- 
ing Beethoven's  ^-  Battle  of  Vittoria,"  in  which,  amidst  a 
storm  of  glorious  music,  the  air  of  ••  God  save  the  King" 
was  introduced.  The  very  instant  it  began,  every  English- 
man in  the  house  was  bolt  upright,  and  so  stood  rever- 
ently until  the  air  was  played  out.  Why  so  ?  From  some 
such  thrill  of  excitement  as  makes  us  glow  and  rejoice  over 
Mr.  Turner  and  his  "  Fighting  Temeraire ; "  which  I  am 
sure,  when  the  art  of  translating  colors  into  music  or 
poetry  shall  be  discovered,  will  be  found  to  be  a  magnifi- 
cent national  ode  or  piece  of  music. 

I  must  tell  you,  however,  that  ]\Ir.  Turner's  performances 
are  for  the  most  part  quite  incomprehensible  to  me  ;  and 
that  his  other  pictures,  which  he  is  pleased  to  call  ''  Cicero 
at  his  Villa,"  "  Agrippina  with  the  Ashes  of  Germanicus," 
"Pluto  carrying  otf  Proserpina,"  or  what  you  will,  are  not 
a  whit  more  natural,  or  less  mad,  than  they  used  to  be  in 
former  years,  since  he  has  forsaken  nature,  or  attempted 
(like  your  French  barbers)  to  embellish  it.  On  ii'embellit 
pas  la  nature,  my  dear  Bricabrac ;  one  may  make  pert  cari- 
catures of  it,  or  mad  exaggerations  like  ]Mr.  Turner  in  his 
fancy  pieces.  0  ye  gods  !  why  will  he  not  stick  to  copying 
her  majestical  countenance,  instead  of  daubing  it  with 
some  absurd  antics  and  fard  of  his  own  ?  Fancy  pea-green 
skies,  crimson  lake  trees,  and  orange  and  purple  grass  — 
fancy  cataracts,  rainbows,  suns,  moons,  and  thunderbolts 
—  shake  them  well  up,  with  a  quantity  of  gamboge,  and 
you  will  have  an  idea  of  a  fancy  picture  by  Turner.  It  is 
worth  a  shilling  alone  to  go  and  see  "  Pluto  and  Proser- 
pina." Such  a  landscape !  such  figures !  such  a  little  red- 
hot  coal-scuttle  of  a  chariot !     As  Xat  Lee  sings  — 

"Methonght  I  saw  a  hieroglyphic  bat 
Skim  o'er  the  surface  of  a  slipshod  hat; 
While,  to  increase  the  tuniuU  of  the  skies, 
A  damned  potato  o'er  the  whirlwind  flies." 

If  you  can  understand  these  lines,  you  can  understand  one 
of  Turner's  landscapes;  and  I  recommend  them  to  him,  as 
a  pretty  subject  for  a  piece  for  next  year. 

Etty  has  a  picture  on  the  same  subject  as  Turner's 
"  Pluto  carrying  off  Proserpina ;  "  and  if  one  may  complain 
that  in  the  latter  the  figures  are  not  indicated,  one  cannot 


128      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

at  least  lay  this  fault  to  Mr.  Etty's  door.  His  figures  are 
drawn,  and  a  deuced  deal  too  much  drawn.  A  great  large 
curtain  of  fig-leaves  should  be  hung  over  every  one  of  this 
artist's  pictures,  and  the  world  should  pass  on,  content  to 
know  that  there  are  some  glorious  colors  painted  beneath. 
His  color,  indeed,  is  sublime ;  I  doubt  if  Titian  ever  knew 
how  to  paint  flesh  better  —  but  his  taste  !  Not  David  nor 
Girodet  ever  offended  propriety  so  —  scarcely  ever  Peter 
Paul  himself,  by  whose  side  as  a  colorist  and  a  magnificent 
heroic  painter,  Mr.  Etty  is  sometimes  worthy  to  stand.  I 
wish  he  would  take  Ariosto  in  hand,  and  give  us  a  series 
of  designs  from  him.  His  hand  would  be  the  very  one  for 
those  deep  luscious  landscapes,  and  fiery  scenes  of  love  and 
battle.  Besides  "Proserpine,"  Mr.  Etty  has  two  more 
pictures,  "Endymion,"  with  a  dirty,  affected,  beautiful, 
slatternly  Diana,  and  a  portrait  of  the  "  Lady  Mayoress  of 
York,"  which  is  a  curiosity  in  its  way.  The  line  of  her 
ladyship's  eyes  and  mouth  (it  is  a  front  face)  are  made  to 
meet  at  a  point  in  a  marabou  feather  which  she  wears  in 
her  turban,  and  close  to  her  cheekbone ;  while  the  expres- 
sion of  the  whole  countenance  is  so  fierce,  that  you  would 
imagine  it  a  Lady  Macbeth,  and  not  a  lady  mayoress.  The 
picture  has,  nevertheless,  some  very  fine  painting  about  it 
—  as  which  of  Mr.  Etty's  pictures  has  not  ? 

The  artists  say  there  is  very  fine  painting,  too,  in 
Sir  David  Wilkie's  great  "  Sir  David  Baird ; "  for  my  part, 
I  think  very  little.  You  see  a  great  quantity  of  brown 
paint ;  in  this  is  a  great  flashing  of  torches,  feathers,  and 
bayonets.  You  see  in  the  foreground,  huddled  up  in  a  rich 
heap  of  corpses  and  drapery,  Tippoo  Sahib ;  and  swagger- 
ing over  him  on  a  step,  waving  a  sword  for  no  earthly  pur- 
pose, and  wearing  a  red  jacket  and  buckskins,  the  figure  of 
Sir  David  Baird.  The  j)icture  is  poor,  feeble,  theatrical; 
and  I  would  just  as  soon  have  Mr.  Hart's  great  canvas  of 
"  Lady  Jane  Grey  "  (which  is  worth  exactly  twopence-half- 
penny) as  Sir  David's  poor  picture  of  "  Seringapatam." 
Some  of  Sir  David's  portraits  are  worse  even  than  his  his- 
torical compositions  —  they  seem  to  be  painted  with  snuff 
and  tallow-grease :  the  faces  are  merely  indicated,  and 
without  individuality ;  the  forms  only  half-drawn,  and 
almost  always  wrong.  What  has  come  to  the  hand  that 
painted  "The  Blind  Fiddler"  and  "The  Chelsea  Pen- 
sioners "  ?  Who  would  have  thought  that  such  a  portrait 
as  that  of  "  Master  Eobert  Donne,"  or  the  composition  en- 


A   SECOND  LECTURE   ON  THE  FINE  ARTS.      129 

titled  "The  Grandfather,"  could  ever  have  come  from  the 
author  of  "The  Kent  Day"  and  "The  Reading  of  the 
Will "  ?  If  it  be  but  a  contrast  to  this  feeble,  flimsy, 
transparent  figure  of  Master  Donne,  the  spectator  cannot 
do  better  than  cast  his  eyes  upwards,  and  look  at  Mr. 
Linnell's  excellent  portrait  of  "  ^Ir.  Eobert  Peel."  It  is 
real  substantial  nature,  carefully  and  honestly  painted,  and 
without  any  flashy  tricks  of  art.  It  may  seem  ungracious 
in  "  us  youth  "  thus  to  fall  foul  of  our  betters ;  but  if  Sir 
David  has  taught  us  to  like  good  pictures,  by  painting 
them  formerly,  we  cannot  help  criticising  if  he  paints  bad 
ones  now :  and  bad  they  most  surely  are. 

From  the  censure,  however,  must  be  excepted  the  picture 
of  "  Grace  before  Meat,"  which,  a  little  misty  and  feeble, 
perhaps,  in  drawing  and  substance,  in  color,  feeling,  com- 
position, and  expression  is  exquisite.  The  eye  loves  to 
repose  upon  this  picture,  and  the  heart  to  brood  over  it 
afterwards.  AVhen,  as  I  said  before,  lines  and  colors  come 
to  be  translated  into  sounds,  this  picture,  I  have  no  doubt, 
will  turn  out  to  be  a  sweet  and  touching  hymn-tune,  with 
rude  notes  of  cheerful  voices,  and  peal  of  soft  melodious 
organ,  such  as  one  hears  stealing  over  the  meadows  on  sun- 
shiny Sabbath-days,  while  waves  under  cloudless  blue  the 
joeaceful  golden  corn.  Some  such  feeling  of  exquisite  pleas- 
ure and  content  is  to  be  had,  too,  from  .Mr.  Eastlake's  pic- 
ture of  "  Our  Lord  and  the  Little  Children."  You  never 
saw  such  tender  white  faces,  and  solemn  eyes,  and  sweet 
forms  of  mothers  round  their  little  ones  bending  gracefully. 
These  pictures  come  straight  to  the  heart,  and  then  all 
criticism  and  calculation  vanish  at  once,  —  for  the  artist 
has  attained  his  great  end,  which  is,  to  strike  far  deeper 
than  the  sight ;  and  we  have  no  business  to  quarrel  about 
defects  in  form  and  color,  which  are  but  little  parts  of  the 
great  painter's  skill. 

Look,  for  instance,  at  another  piece  of  Mr.  Eastlake's, 
called,  somewhat  affectedly,  "  La  Svegliarina."  The  defects 
of  the  painter,  which  one  does  not  condescend  to  notice 
when  he  is  filled  with  a  great  idea,  become  visible  instantly 
when  he  is  only  occupied  with  a  small  one ;  and  you  see 
that  the  hand  is  too  scrupulous  and  finikin,  the  drawing 
weak,  the  flesh  chalky,  and  unreal.  The  very  same  objec- 
tions exist  to  the  other  picture,  but  the  subject  and  the 
genius  overcome  them. 

Passing  from  ^Mr.  Eastlake's  pictures  to  those  of  a  greater 


130     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

genius,  though  in  a  different  line,  —  look  at  Mr.  Leslie's 
little  pieces.  Can  anything  be  more  simple  —  almost  rude 
—  than  their  manner,  and  more  complete  in  their  effect 
upon  the  spectator  ?  The  very  soul  of  comedy  is  in  them  ; 
there  is  no  coarseness,  no  exaggeration ;  but  they  gladden 
the  eye,  and  the  merriment  which  they  excite  cannot  possi- 
bly be  more  pure,  gentlemanlike,  or  delightful.  Mr. 
]\raclise  has  humor,  too,  and  vast  powers  of  expressing  it ; 
but  whiskey  is  not  more  different  from  rich  burgundy  than 
his  fun  from  Mr.  Leslie's.  To  our  thinking,  Leslie's  little 
head  of  "  Sancho "  is  worth  the  whole  picture  from  "  Gil 
Bias,"  which  hangs  by  it.  In  point  of  workmanship,  this 
is,  perhaps,  the  best  picture  that  Mr.  Maclise  ever  painted ; 
the  color  is  far  better  than  that  usually  employed  by  him, 
and  the  representation  of  objects  carried  to  such  an  extent 
as  we  do  believe  was  never  reached  before.  There  is  a 
poached  Qg^,  which  one  could  swallow ;  a  trout,  that  beats 
all  the  trout  that  was  ever  seen ;  a  copper  pan,  scoured  so 
clean  that  you  might  see  your  face  in  it ;  a  green  blind, 
through  which  the  sun  comes ;  and  a  wall,  with  the  sun 
shining  on  it,  that  De  Hooghe  could  not  surpass.  This 
young  man  has  the  greatest  power  of  hand  that  was  ever 
had,  perhaps,  by  any  painter  in  any  time  or  country. 
What  does  he  want  ?  Polish,  I  think  ;  thought,  and  culti- 
vation. His  great  picture  of  "  King  Richard  and  Robin 
Hood "  is  a  wonder  of  dexterity  of  hand ;  but  coarse,  I 
think,  and  inefficient  in  humor.  His  models  repeat  them- 
selves too  continually.  Allen-a-Dale,  the  harper,  is  the 
very  counterpart  of  Gil  Bias ;  and  Robin  Hood  is  only 
Apollo  with  whislj:ers :  the  same  grin,  the  same  display  of 
grinders,  —  the  same  coarse  luscious  mouth,  belongs  to 
both.  In  the  large  picture,  everybody  grins,  and  shows  his 
whole  rdtelier;  and  you  look  at  them  and  say,  "  These  peo- 
ple seem  all  very  jolly."  Leslie's  characters  do  not  laugh 
themselves,  but  they  make  you  laugh ;  and  this  is  where 
the  experienced  American  artist  beats  the  dashing  young 
Irish  one.  We  shall  say  nothing  of  the  color  of  Mr. 
Maclise's  large  picture ;  some  part  appears  to  us  to  be  ex- 
cellent, and  the  whole  piece,  as  far  as  execution  goes,  is 
worthy  of  his  amazing  talents  and  high  reputation.  Mr. 
Maclise  has  but  one  portrait ;  it  is,  perhaps,  the  best  in  the 
exhibition  :  sober  in  color,  wonderful  for  truth,  effect,  and 
power  of  drawing. 

In  speaking  of  portraits,  there  is  never  much  to  say  ;  and 


A    SECOXD  LECTURE   ON   THE  FINE  ARTS.    131 

they  are  fewer,  and  for  the  most  part  more  indifferent,  than 
usual.  Mr.  Pickersgill  has  a  good  one,  a  gentleman  in  a 
green  chair ;  and  one  or  two  outrageously-  bad.  ^Mr.  Phil- 
lips's "  Doctor  Sheppard  "  is  a  finely  painted  head  and  pic- 
ture ;  his  Lady  Dunraven,  and  her  son,  as  poor,  ill-drawn, 
and  ill-colored  a  performance  as  can  possibly  be.  'Mv.  Wood 
has  a  pretty  head ;  ^Mr.  Stone  a  good  portrait  of  a  very 
noble-looking  lady,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Blackwood ;  ^Iv.  Bewick 
a  good  one ;  and  there  are,  of  course,  many  others  whose 
names  might  be  mentioned  with  praise  or  censure,  but 
whom  we  will,  if  you  please,  pass  over  altogether. 

The  great  advance  of  the  year  is  in  the  small  historical 
compositions,  of  which  there  are  many  that  deserve  honor- 
able mention.  Redgrave's  "  Return  of  Olivia  to  the  Vicar  '^ 
has  some  very  pretty  painting  and  feeling  in  it ;  "  Quentin 
Matsys,"  by  the  same  artist,  is  tolerably  good.  D.  Cow- 
per's  "  Othello  relating  his  Adventures,"  really  beautiful ; 
as  is  Cope's  "  Belgian  Family."  All  these  are  painted  with 
grace,  feeling,  and  delicacy ;  as  is  E.  M.  Ward's  "  Cimabue 
and  Giotto "  (there  is  in  Tiepolo's  etchings  the  self-same 
composition,  by  the  way) ;  and  Herbert's  elegant  picture  of 
the  ''Brides  of  Venice."  Mr.  Severn's  composition  from 
the  "Ancient  Mariner"  is  a  noble  performance;  and  the 
figure  of  the  angel  with  raised  arm  awful  and  beautiful  too. 
It  does  good  to  see  such  figures  in  pictures  as  those  and  the 
above,  invented  and  drawn,  —  for  they  belong,  as  we  take 
it,  to  the  best  school  of  art,  of  which  one  is  glad  to  see  the 
daily  spread  among  our  3'oung  painters. 

Mr.  Charles  Landseer's  •'  Tillage  of  a  Jew's  House  "  is  a 
very  well  and  carefully  painted  picture,  containing  a  great 
many  figures  and  good  points ;  but  we  are  not  going  to 
praise  it :  it  wants  vigor,  to  our  taste,  and  what  you  call, 
act ua life.  The  people  stretch  their  arms  and  turn  their 
eyes  the  proper  way,  but  as  if  they  were  in  a  tableau  and 
paid  for  standing  there  ;  one  longs  to  see  them  all  in  motion 
and  naturally  employed. 

I  feel,  I  confess,  a  kind  of  delight  in  finding  out  ^li\ 
Edwin  Landseer  in  a  bad  picture ;  for  the  man  paints  so 
wonderfully  w^ell,  that  one  is  angry  that  he  does  not  paint 
better,  which  he  might  with  half  his  talent,  and  without 
half  his  facility.  "  Van  Amburgh  and  the  Lions  "  is  a  bad 
picture,  and  no  mistake ;  dexterous,  of  course,  but  flat  and 
washy :  the  drawing  even  of  the  animals  is  careless ;  that 
of  the  man  bad,  though  the  head  is  very  like,  and  very 


132     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

smartly  painted.  Then  there  are  other  dog-and-man 
portraits;  "Miss  Peel  with  Fido/'  for  instance.  Fido  is 
wonderful,  and  so  are  the  sponges,  and  hair-brushes,  and 
looking-glass,  prepared  for  the  dog's  bath  ;  and  the  drawing 
of  the  child's  face,  as  far  as  the  lines  and  expression  go,  is 
very  good ;  but  the  face  is  covered  with  flesh-colored  paint, 
and  not  flesh,  and  the  child  looks  like  a  wonderful  doll,  or 
imitation  child,  and  not  a  real  young  lady,  daughter  of  a 
gentleman  who  was  prime  minister  last  week  (by-the-by, 
my  dear  Bricabrac,  did  you  ever  read  such  a  pretty  Whig 
game  as  that,  and  such  a  nice  coup  d'etat  ?).  There,  again, 
is  the  beautiful  little  Princess  of  Cambridge,  with  a  dog, 
and  a  piece  of  biscuit :  the  dog  and  the  biscuit  are  just 
perfection  ;  but  the  princess  is  no  such  thing,  —  only  a  beau- 
tiful apology  for  a  princess,  like  that  which  Princess 
Penelope  didiiH  send  the  other  day  to  the  Lord  Mayor  of 
London. 

We  have  to  thank  you  (and  not  our  Academy,  which  has 
hung  the  picture  in  a  most  scurvy  way)  for  Mr.  Scheffer's 
"Preche  Protestant."  This  flne  composition  has  been 
thrust  down  on  the  ground,  and  trampled  under  foot,  as  it 
were,  by  a  great  number  of  worthless  Academics ;  but  it 
merits  one  of  the  very  best  places  in  the  gallery ;  and  I 
mention  it  to  hint  an  idea  to  your  worship,  which  only 
could  come  from  a  great  mind  like  that  of  Titmarsh, — to 
have,  namely,  some  day  a  great  European  congress  of  paint- 
ings, which  might  be  exhibited  at  one  place,  —  Paris,  say, 
as  the  most  central ;  or,  better  still,  travel  about,  under  the 
care  of  trusty  superintendents,  as  they  might,  without  fear 
of  injury.  I  think  such  a  circuit  would  do  much  to  make 
the  brethren  known  to  one  another,  and  we  should  hear 
quickly  of  much  manly  emulation,  and  stout  training  for 
the  contest.  If  you  will  mention  this  to  Louis  Philippe 
the  next  time  you  see  that  voi  citoyen  (mention  it  soon,  — 
for,  egad !  the  next  emeute  may  be  successful ;  and  who 
knows  when  it  will  happen?)  —  if  you  will  mention  this 
at  the  Tuileries,  we  will  take  care  of  St.  James's ;  for  I 
suppose  that  you  know,  in  spite  of  the  Whigs,  her  most 
sacred  Majesty  reads  every  word  of  FTaser''s  Magazine,  and 
will  be  as  sure  to  see  this  on  the  first  of  next  month,  as 
Lord  Melbourne  will  be  to  dine  with  her  on  that  day. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  muttons.  I  think  there  are  few 
more  of  the  oil  pictures  about  which  it  is  necessary  to 
speak ;  and  besides  them,  there  are  a  host  of  miniatures, 


A    SECOND  LECTURE   ON   THE  FINE   ARTS.     133 

difficult  to  expatiate  upon,  but  pleasing  to  behold.  There 
are  Chaloc's  ogling  beauties,  half  a  dozen  of  them  :  and  the 
skill  with  which  their  silks  and  satins  are  dashed  in  by  the 
painter  is  a  marvel  to  the  beholder.  There  are  Ross's 
heads,  that  to  be  seen  must  be  seen  through  a  microscope. 
There  is  Saunders,  who  runs  the  best  of  the  miniature  men 
very  hard ;  and  Thorburn,  with  Is"ewton.  Robertson, 
Rochard,  and  a  host  of  others :  and,  finally,  there  is  the 
sculpture-room,  containing  many  pieces  of  clay  and  marble, 
and,  to  my  notions,  but  two  good  things,  a  sleeping  child 
(ridiculously  called  the  Lady  Susan  Somebody),  by  West- 
macott ;  and  the  bust  of  Miss  Stuart,  by  JMacdonald :  never 
was  anything  on  earth  more  exquisitely  lovel3^ 

These  things  seen,  take  your  stick  from  the  porter  at  the 
hall  door,  cut  it,  and  go  to  fresh  picture  galleries ;  but  ere 
you  go,  just  by  way  of  contrast,  and  to  soothe  your  mind, 
after  the  glare  and  bustle  of  the  modern  collection,  take 
half  an  hour's  repose  in  the  National  Gallery ;  where, 
before  the  ''  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  you  may  see  what  the 
magic  of  color  is  ;  before  '•  Christ  and  Lazarus  "  what  is 
majestic,  solemn  grace  and  awful  beauty ;  and  before  the 
new  "  Saint  Catherine "  what  is  the  real  divinity  of  art. 
Oh,  Eastlake  and  Turner  I  —  Oh,  ^laclise  and  ^hilready  ! 
you  are  all  very  nice  men  ;  but  what  are  you  to  the  men  of 
old  ? 

Issuing  then  from  the  National  Gallery  —  you  may  step 
over  to  Farrance's  by  the  way,  if  you  like,  and  sip  an  ice, 
or  bolt  a  couple  of  dozen  forced-meat  balls  in  a  basin  of 
mock-turtle  soup  —  issuing,  I  say,  from  the  National  Gal- 
lery, and  after  refreshing  yourself  or  not,  as  your  purse  or 
appetite  permits,  you  arrive  speedily  at  the  AVater-Color 
Exhibition,  and  cannot  do  better  than  enter.  I  know  noth- 
ing more  cheerful  or  sparkling  than  the  first  coup  cVceil  of 
this  little  gallery.  In  the  first  place,  you  never  can  enter 
it  without  finding  four  or  five  pretty  women,  that's  a  fact ; 
pretty  women  with  pretty  pink  bonnets  peeping  at  pretty 
pictures,  and  with  sweet  whispers  vowing  that  Mrs. 
Seyffarth  is  a  dear  delicious  painter,  and  that  her  style  is 
"  so  soft ; "  and  that  Miss  Sharpe  paints  every  bit  as  well 
as  her  sister  ;  and  that  Mr.  Jean  Paul  Frederick  Richter 
draws  the  loveliest  things,  to  be  sure,  that  ever  were  seen. 
Well,  very  likely  the  ladies  are  right,  and  it  would  be  un- 
polite  to  argue  the  matter ;  but  I  wish  Mrs.  Seyffarth's 


134     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND   ART. 

gentlemen  and  ladies  were  not  so  dreadfully  handsome, 
with  such  white  pillars  of  necks,  such  long  eyes  arnd  lashes, 
and  such  dabs  of  carmine  at  the  mouth  and  nostrils.  I  wish 
Miss  Sharpe  would  not  paint  Scripture  subjects,  and  Mr. 
Kichter  great  goggle-eyed,  red-cheeked,  simpering  wenches, 
whose  ogling  has  become  odious  from  its  repetition.  How- 
ever, the  ladies  like  it,  and,  of  course,  must  have  their 
way. 

If  you  want  to  see  real  nature,  now,  real  expression,  real 
startling  home  poetry,  look  at  every  one  of  Hunt's  heads. 
Hogarth  never  painted  anything  better  than  these  figures, 
taken  singly.  That  man  rushing  away  frightened  from  the 
beer-barrel  is  a  noble  head  of  terror;  that  Miss  Jemima 
Crow,  whose  whole  body  is  a  grin,  regards  you  with  an  ogle 
that  all  the  race  of  Richters  could  never  hope  to  imitate. 
Look  at  yonder  card-players ;  they  have  a  penny  pack  of 
the  devil's  books,  and  one  has  just  laid  down  the  king  of 
trumps !  I  defy  you  to  look  at  him  without  laughing,  or 
to  examine  the  wondrous  puzzled  face  of  his  adversary 
without  longing  to  hug  the  greasy  rogue.  Come  hither,  Mr. 
Maclise,  and  see  what  genuine  comedy  is  ;  you  who  can 
paint  better  than  all  the  Hunts  and  Leslies,  and  yet  not 
near  so  well.  If  I  were  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  I  would 
have  a  couple  of  Hunts  in  every  room  in  all  my  houses  ;  if 
I  had  the  blue-devils  (and  even  their  graces  are,  I  suppose, 
occasionally  so  troubled),  I  would  but  cast  my  eyes  upon 
these  grand  good-humored  pictures,  and  defy  care.  Who 
does  not  recollect  "  Before  and  After  the  Mutton  Pie,"  the 
two  pictures  of  that  wondrous  boy  ?  Where  Mr.  Hunt 
finds  his  models,  I  cannot  tell ;  they  are  the  very  flower  of 
the  British  youth  ;  each  of  them  is  as  good  as  "  Sancho ; " 
blessed  is  he  that  has  his  portfolio  full  of  them. 

There  is  no  need  to  mention  to  you  the  charming  land- 
scapes of  Cox,  Copley  Fielding,  De  Wint,  Gastineau,  and 
the  rest.  A  new  painter,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  Harding, 
is  Mr.  Callow ;  and  better,  I  think,  than  his  master  or  origi- 
nal, whose  colors  are  too  gaudy  to  my  taste,  and  effects  too 
glaringly  theatrical. 

Mr.  Cattermole  has,  among  others,  two  very  fine  draw- 
ings :  a  large  one,  the  most  finished  and  the  best  colored  of 
any  which  have  been  exhibited  by  this  fine  artist ;  and  a 
smaller  one,  "  The  Portrait,"  which  is  charming.  The  por- 
trait is  that  of  Jane  Seymour  or  Anne  Boleyn  ;  and  Henry 
VIII.  is  the  person  examining  it,  with  the  Cardinal  at  his 


A    iSECOND  LECTURE   ON    THE  FINE   ARTS.     135 

side,  the  painter  before  hira,  and  one  or  two  attendants. 
The  picture  seems  to  me  a  perfect  masterpiece,  very  simply 
colored  and  composed,  but  delicious  in  effect  and  tone,  and 
telling  the  story  to  a  wonder.  It  is  much  more  gratifying, 
I  think,  to  let  a  painter  tell  his  own  story  in  this  way,  than 
to  bind  him  down  to  a  scene  of  "Ivanhoe"  or  ''Uncle 
Toby ; "  or,  worse  still,  to  an  illustration  of  some  wretched 
story  in  some  wretched  fribble  Annual.  AYoe  to  the  painter 
who  falls  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Charles  Heath  (I  speak,  of 
course,  not  of  Mr.  Heath  personally,  but  in  the  Pickwickian 
sense  —  of  Mr.  Heath  the  Annual-monger);  he  ruins  the 
young  artist,  sucks  his  brains  out,  emasculates  his  genius 
so  as  to  make  it  lit  company  for  the  purchasers  of  Annuals. 
Take,  for  instance,  that  unfortunate  young  man,  j\Ir.  Cor- 
bould,  who  gave  great  promise  two  years  since,  painted  a 
pretty  picture  last  year,  and  now  —  he  has  been  in  the 
hands  of  the  Annual-mongers,  and  has  left  well-nigh  all  his 
vigor  behind  him.  Numerous  Zuleikas  and  Lalla  Eookhs, 
which  are  hanging  about  the  walls  of  the  Academy  and  the 
New  Water-Color  Gallery,  give  lamentable  proofs  of  this  : 
snch  handsome  Turks  and  leering  sultanas;  such  jMoors, 
with  straight  noses  and  pretty  curled  beards  !  Away,  Mr. 
Corbould  !  away  while  it  is  yet  time,  out  of  the  hands  of 
these  sickly,  heartless  Annual  sirens  !  and  ten  years  hence, 
when  you  have  painted  a  good,  vigorous,  healthy  picture, 
bestow  the  tear  of  gratitude  upon  Titniarsh,  who  tore  you 
from  the  lap  of  your  crimson-silk-and-gilt-edged  Armida. 

]Mr.  Cattermole  has  a  couple,  we  will  not  say  of  imitators, 
but  of  friends,  who  admire  his  works  very  much  ;  these  are, 
Mr.  Nash  and  Mr.  Lake  Price ;  the  former  paints  furniture 
and  old  houses,  the  latter  old  houses  and  furniture,  and 
both  very  pretty.  No  harm  can  be  said  of  these  miniature 
scene-painters  ;  on  the  contrary,  ]\[r.  Price's  "  Gallery  at 
Hiirdwicke "  is  really  remarkably  dexterous ;  and  the 
chairs,  tables,  curtains,  and  pictures  are  nicked  off  with  ex- 
traordinary neatness  and  sharpness — and  then  ?  why  then, 
no  more  is  to  be  said.  Cobalt,  sepia,  and  a  sable  pencil  will 
do  a  deal  of  work,  to  be  sure  ;  and  very  pretty  it  is,  too, 
whi^n  done;  and  as  for  finding  fault  with  it,  that  nobody 
will  and  can ;  but  an  artist  wants  something  more  than 
sepia,  cobalt,  and  sable  pencils,  and  the  knowledge  how  to 
use  them.  AVhat  do  you  think,  my  dear  Bricabrac,  of  a 
little  genius?  —  thafs  the  picture-painter,  depend  on  it. 


136     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  water-colors,  we  may  as  well 
step  into  the  New  Water-Color  Exhibition  :  not  so  good  as 
the  old,  but  very  good.  You  will  see  here  a  large  drawing 
by  ]Mr.  Corbould  of  a  tournament,  which  will  show  at  once 
how  clever  that  young  artist  is,  and  how  weak  and  maniere. 
You  will  see  some  charming  unaffected  English  landscapes 
by  Mr.  Sims ;  and  a  capital  Spanish  Girl  by  Hicks,  of 
which  the  flesh-painting  cannot  be  too  much  approved.  It 
is  done  without  the  heavy  white,  with  which  water-color 
artists  are  now  wont  to  belabor  their  pictures  ;  and  is,  there- 
fore, frankly  and  clearly  painted,  as  all  transparent  water-color 
drawing  must  be.  The  same  praise  of  clearness,  boldness, 
and  depth  of  tone  must  be  given  to  Mr.  Absolon,  who  uses 
no  white,  and  only  just  so  much  stippling  as  is  necessary; 
his  picture  has  the  force  of  oil,  and  we  should  be  glad  to 
see  his  manner  more  followed. 

Mr.  Haghe's  "  Town  Hall  of  Courtray "  has  attracted, 
and  deservedly,  a  great  deal  of  notice.  It  is  a  very  fine 
and  masterly  architectural  drawing,  rich  and  sombre  in 
effect,  the  figures  introduced  being  very  nearly  as  good  as 
the  rest  of  the  picture.  Mr.  Haghe,  we  suppose,  will  be 
called  to  the  upper  house  of  water-color  painters,  who  might 
well  be  anxious  to  receive  into  their  ranks  many  persons 
belonging  to  the  new  society.  We  hope,  however,  the  lat- 
ter will  be  faithful  to  themselves ;  there  is  plenty  of  room 
for  two  galleries,  and  the  public  must,  ere  long,  learn  to 
appreciate  the  merits  of  the  new  one.  Having  spoken  a 
word  in  favor  of  Mr.  Johnston's  pleasing  and  quaintly  col- 
ored South  American  sketches,  we  have  but  to  bend  our 
steps  to  Suffolk  Street,  and  draw  this  discourse  to  a  close. 

Here  is  a  very  fine  picture  indeed,  by  Mr.  Hurlstone, 
"  Olympia  attacked  by  Bourbon's  Soldiers  in  Saint  Peter's 
and  flying  to  tlie  Cross."  Seen  from  the  further  room,  this 
picture  is  grand  in  effect  and  color,  and  the  rush  of  the 
armed  men  towards  the  girl  finely  and  vigorously  expressed. 
The  head  of  Olympia  has  been  called  too  calm  by  the 
critics ;  it  seems  to  me  most  beautiful,  and  the  action  of 
the  figure  springing  forward  and  flinging  its  arms  round 
the  cross  nobly  conceived  and  executed.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  fine  Titianic  painting  in  the  soldiers'  figures  (oh 
that  Mr.  Hurlstone  would  throw  away  his  lampblack !),  and 
the  background  of  the  church  is  fine,  vast,  and  gloomy. 
This  is  the  best  historical  picture  to  be  seen  anywhere  this 
year  J  perhaps  the  worst  is  the  one  which  stands  at  the 


A    SECOND  LECTURE    ON   THE   FINE  ARTS.     137 

other  end  of  the  room,  and  which  strikes  upon  the  eye  as 
if  it  were  an  immense  water-color  sketch  of  a  feeble  picture 
by  President  West.  Speaking  of  historical  paintings,  I 
forgot  to  mention  a  large  and  line  picture  by  ^Ir.  Dyce,  the 
•'  Separation  of  Edwy  and  Elgiva ;  "  somewhat  crude  and 
odd  in  color,  with  a  good  deal  of  exaggeration  in  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  figures,  but  having  grandeur  in  it,  and  un- 
mistakable genius  ;  there  is  a  figure  of  an  old  woman  seated, 
which  would  pass  muster  very  well  in  a  group  of  Sebastian 
Piombo. 

A  capitally  painted  head  by  ^Ir,  Stone,  called  the 
■■  Swordbearer,"  almost  as  fresh,  bright,  and  vigorous  as  a 
\^andyke,  is  the  portrait,  we  believe,  of  a  brother  artist,  the 
clever  actor  'Mr.  ]\I'Ian.  The  latter's  picture  of  '•  Sir  Tris- 
tram in  the  Cave  "  deserves  especial  remark  and  praise  ; 
and  is  really  as  fine  a  dramatic  composition  as  one  will 
often  see.  The  figures  of  the  knight  and  the  lady  asleep 
in  the  foreground  are  novel,  striking,  and  beautifully  easy. 
The  advance  of  the  old  king,  who  comes  upon  the  lovers ; 
the  look  of  the  hideous  dwarf,  who  finds  them  out;  and 
behind,  the  line  of  spears  that  are  seen  glancing  over  the 
rocks,  and  indicating  the  march  of  the  unseen  troops,  are 
all  very  well  conceived  and  arranged.  The  piece  deserves 
engraving  ;  it  is  wild,  poetic,  and  original.  To  how  many 
pictures,  nowadays,  can  one  apply  the  two  last  terms  ? 

There  are  some  more  new  pictures,  in  the  midst  of  a 
great  quantity  of  trash,  that  deserve  notice.  ^Ir.  D.  Cow- 
per  is  always  good  ;  ]\[r.  Stewart's  ''  Grandfather  "  contains 
two  excellent  likenesses,  and  is  a  pleasing  little  picture. 
^Ir.  Hurlstone's  ''  Italian  Boy,"  and  ''  Girl  with  a  Dog,"  are 
excellent;  and,  in  this  pleasant  mood,  for  fear  of  falling 
into  an  angry  fit  on  coming  to  look  further  into  the  gallery, 
it  will  be  as  well  to  conclude.  Wishing  many  remem- 
brances to  Mrs.  Bricabrac,  and  better  luck  to  you  in  the 
next  emeiite,  I  beg  here  to  bid  you  farewell  and  entreat 
you  to  accept  the  assurances  of  my  distinguished  con- 
sideration. 

M.  A.  T. 

Au  CiTOYEx  Brutus  Napoleon  Bricabrac,  Refugie 
d\-ii')-lL  Blesse  cle  Mai.  Condamne  de  Juin,  Decore 
de  Juillet,  etc.  etc.     Hotel  Dieu,  h,  Paris. 


138      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART, 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO 
TITMARSH. 

WITH    AN    INTRODUCTORY    LETTER    TO    MR.    YORKE. 
\^Fraser''s  Mar/azine,  June  and  July,  1840.] 

My  dear  Yorke, — Do  you  remember  the  orders  which 
you  gave  me  at  the  close  of  our  dinner  last  week  at  the 
Clarendon  ?  —  that  dinner  which  you  always  provide  upon 
my  arrival  in  town  from  my  country-seat ;  knowing  full 
well  that  Titmarsh  before  he  works  must  dine,  and  w^hen 
he  dines,  must  dine  well  ?  Do  you,  I  say,  remember  the 
remarks  which  you  addressed  to  me  ?  Probably  not ;  for 
that  third  bottle  of  Clos-Vougeot  had  evidently  done  your 
business,  and  you  were  too  tipsy  even  to  pay  the  bill. 

Well,  let  bills  be  bills,  and  what  care  we  ?  There  is  Mr. 
James  Fraser,  our  employer,  master,  publisher,  purse-bearer, 
and  friend,  who  has  such  a  pleasure  in  paying  that  it  is  a 
pity  to  balk  him  ;  and  I  never  saw  a  man  look  more  happy 
than  he  when  he  lugged  out  four  five-pound  notes  to  pay 
for  that  dinner  of  ours.  What  a  scene  it  was  !  You  asleep 
with  your  head  in  a  dish  of  melted  raspberry-ice  ;  Mr.  Fraser 
calm,  beneficent,  majestic,  counting  out  the  thirteens  to  the 
waiters  :  the  Doctor  and  Mr.  John  Abraham  Heraud  sing- 
ing "  Suoni  la  tromba  intrepida,"  each  clutching  the  other's 
hand,  and  v»'aving  a  punch-ladle  or  a  dessert-knife  in  the 
unemployed  paw,  and  the  rest  of  us  joining  in  chorus  when 
they  came  to  "gridando  liberta."  —  But  I  am  wandering 
from  the  point :  the  address  which  you  delivered  to  me  on 
drinking  my  health  -was  in  substance  this  :  — 

"Mr.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  the  splendid  feast  of 
which  you  have  partaken,  and  the  celebrated  company  of 
individuals  whom  you  see  around  you,  will  show  you  in 
what  estimation  myself  and  Mr.  Fraser  hold  your  talents, — 
not  that  the  latter  point  is  of  any  consequence,  as  I  am  the 


A    PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY.  139 

sole  editor  of  the  Magazine.  Sir,  you  have  been  called  to 
the  metropolis  from  a  very  distant  part  of  the  country,  your 
coach  hire  and  personal  expenses  have  been  defra^'ed,  you 
have  been  provided  with  a  suit  of  clothes  that  ought  to  be- 
come you,  for  they  have  been  for  at  least  six  months  the 
wonder  of  the  town  while  exhibited  on  my  own  person ; 
and  you  may  well  fancy  that  all  these  charges  have  not 
been  incurred  on  our  parts,  without  an  expectation  of  some 
corresponding  return  from  3-ou.  You  are  a  devilish  bad 
painter,  sir;  but  never  mind,  Hazlitt  was  another,  and  old 
Peter  Pindar  was  a  miserable  dauber ;  Mr.  Alexander  Pope, 
who  wrote  several  pretty  poems,  was  always  busy  with 
brush  and  palette,  and  made  sad  work  of  them.  You,  then, 
in  common  with  these  before-named  illustrations,  as  my 
friend.  Lady  Morgan,  calls  them  [Sir  Charles  returned 
thanks],  are  a  wretched  artist ;  but  a  tolerable  critic  — 
nay,  a  good  critic  —  nay,  let  me  say  to  your  face,  the  best 
critic,  the  clearest,  the  soundest,  the  gayest,  the  most  elo- 
quent, the  most  pathetic,  and,  above  all,  the  most  honest 
critic  in  matters  of  art  that  is  to  be  found  in  her  Majesty's 
dominions.  And,  therefore,  ^Ir.  Titmarsh,  for  we  must  give 
the  deuce  his  due,  you  have  been  brought  from  your  cottage 
near  John  O'Groat's  or  Land's  End,  —  I  forget  which, — 
therefore  you  have  been  summoned  to  London  at  the  present 
season. 

"Sir,  there  are  at  this  moment  no  less  than  five  public 
exhibitions  of  pictures  in  the  metropolis ;  and  it  will  be 
your  duty  carefully  to  examine  every  one  of  them  during 
your  residence  here,  and  bring  us  a  full  and  accurate  report 
upon  all  the  pieces  exhibited  which  are  remarkable  for 
goodness,  badness,  or  mediocrity.'' 

I  here  got  up  ;  and,  laying  my  hand  on  my  satin  waist- 
coat, looked  up  to  heaven,  and  said,  "  Sir,  I  "  — 

"Sit  down,  sir,  and  keep  your  eternal  wagging  jaws 
quiet !  Waiter !  whenever  that  person  attempts  to  speak, 
have  the  goodness  to  fill  his  mouth  with  olives  or  a  damson 
cheese.  —  To  proceed.  Sir,  and  you,  gentlemen,  and  you, 
0  intelligent  public  of  Great  Britain !  (for  I  know  that 
every  word  I  say  is  in  some  way  carried  to  you)  you  must 
all  be  aware,  I  say,  how  wickedly,  —  how  foully,  basely, 
meanly  —  how,  in  a  word,  with-every-deteriorating-adverb 
that  ends  in  hj  —  in  ly,  gentlemen  [here  Mr.  Yorke  looked 
round,  and  myself  and  Mr.  Fraser,  rather  alarmed  lest  we 
should  have  let  slip  a  pun,  began  to  raise  a  low  faint  laugh] 


140      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATIUIE  AND   ART. 

—  you  have  all  of  you  seen  how  the  world  has  been  imposed 
upon  by  persons  calling  themselves  critics,  who,  in  daily, 
weekly,  monthly  prints,  protrude  their  nonsense  upon  the 
town.  What  are  these  men  ?  Are  they  educated  to  be 
painters  ?  —  No  !  Have  they  a  taste  for  painting  ?  —  No  ! 
I  know  of  newspapers  in  this  town,  gentlemen,  which  send 
their  reporters  indifferently  to  a  police  office  or  a  picture 
gallery,  and  expect  them  to  describe  Correggio  or  a  fire  in 
Fleet  Street  with  equal  fidelity.  And,  alas  !  it  must  be 
confessed  that  our  matter-of-fact  public  of  England  is  itself 
but  a  dull  appreciator  of  the  arts,  and  is  too  easily  per- 
suaded by  the  dull  critics  Avho  lay  down  their  stupid  laws. 

"  But  we  cannot  expect,  Mr.  Titmarsh,  to  do  any  good  to 
our  beloved  public  by  telling  them  merely  that  their  in- 
structors are  impostors.  Abuse  is  no  argument,  foul  words 
admit  of  no  pretence  (you  may  have  remarked  that  I  never 
use  them  myself,  but  always  employ  the  arts  of  gentle- 
manly persuasion),  and  Ave  must  endeavor  to  create  a  re- 
form amongst  the  nations  by  simply  preaching  a  purer  and 
higher  doctrine.  Go  you  among  the  picture  galleries,  as 
you  have  done  in  former  years,  and  prattle  on  at  your  best 
rate ;  don't  philosophize,  or  define,  or  talk  big,  for  I  will 
cut  out  every  line  of  such  stuff,  but  speak  in  a  simple  nat- 
ural way,  —  without  fear,  and  without  favor. 

"  Mark  that  latter  Avord  '  favor '  Avell ;  for  you  are  a  great 
deal  too  tender  in  your  nature,  and  too  profuse  of  compli- 
ments. Favor,  sir,  is  the  curse  of  the  critical  trade ;  and 
you  will  observe  how  a  spirit  of  camaraderie  and  partisan- 
ship prevails  in  matters  of  art  especially.  The  picture 
critics,  as  I  have  remarked,  are  eminently  dull  —  dull  and 
loud;  perfectly  ignorant  upon  all  subjects  connected  with 
art,  never  able  to  guess  at  the  name  of  an  artist  Avithout  a 
catalogue  and  a  number,  quite  unknowing  Avhether  a  picture 
be  Avell  or  ill  draAvn,  Avell  or  ill  painted  ;  they  must  prate, 
nevertheless,  about  light  and  shade,  Avarm  and  cool  color, 
keeping,  chiaroscuro,  and  such  other  terms,  from  the  Paint- 
ers' Cant  Dictionary,  as  they  hear  bandied  about  among  the 
brethren  of  the  brush. 

"  You  Avill  obserA^e  that  such  a  critic  has  ordinarily  his 
one  or  two  idols  that  he  worships  ;  the  one  or  two  painters, 
namely,  into  Avhose  studios  he  has  free  access,  and  from 
whose  opinions  he  forms  his  OAvn.  There  is  Dash,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  Star  ncAvspaper  ;  now  and  anon  you  hear 
him  discourse  of  the  fine  arts,  and  you  may  take  your  affi- 


A  PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  141 

davit  that  he  has  just  issued  from  Blank's  atelier:  all 
Blank's  opinions  he  utters  —  utters  and  garbles,  of  course  ; 
all  his  likings  are  founded  on  Blank's  dicta,  and  all  his 
dislikings :  'tis  probable  that  Blank  has  a  rival,  one  Aste- 
risk, living  over  the  way.  In  Dash's  eye  Asterisk  is  the 
lowest  of  creatures.  At  every  fresh  exhibition  you  read 
how  'Mr.  Blank  has  transcended  his  already  transcendent 
reputation ; '  '  ^Myriads  are  thronging  round  his  glorious 
canvases;'  'Billions  have  been  trampled  to  death  while 
rushing  to  examine  his  grand  portrait  of  Lady  Smigsmag ; ' 
'  His  picture  of  Sir  Claude  Calipash  is  a  gorgeous  represen- 
tation of  aldermanic  dignity  and  high  chivalric  grace  I ' 
As  for  Asterisk,  you  are  told,  'Mr.  Asterisk  has  two  or 
three  pictures  —  pretty,  but  weak,  repetitions  of  his  old 
faces  and  subjects  in  his  old  namby-pamby  style.  The 
Committee,  we  hear,  rejected  most  of  his  pictures :  the 
Committee  are  very  compassionate.  How  dared  they  reject 
Mr.  Blank's  stupendous  historical  picture  of  So-and-so  ?"' 

[Here,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  there  was  a 
general  snore  heard  from  the  guests  round  the  table,  which 
rather  disturbed  the  flow  of  your  rhetoric.  You  swallowed 
down  two  or  three  pints  of  burgundy,  however,  and  con- 
tinued.] 

"  But  I  must  conclude.  ^Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  3'ou 
know  your  duty.  You  are  an  honest  man  [loud  cheers,  the 
people  had  awakened  during  the  pause].  You  must  go 
forth  determined  to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth;  as  far  as  you,  a  fallible  creature 
[cries  of  '  No,  no  ! '],  know  it.  If  you  see  a  good  picture, 
were  it  the  work  of  your  bitterest  enemy  —  and  you  have 
hundreds  —  praise  it." 

"  I  will,"  gasped  I. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir,  and  don't  be  interrupting  me 
with  your  perpetual  orations !  If  you  see  a  bad  picture, 
were  it  the  work  of  your  dearest  associate,  your  brother, 
the  friend  of  your  bosom,  your  benefactor  —  cut,  slash, 
slaughter  him  without  mercy.  Strip  off  humbug,  sir, 
though  it  cover  your  best  boon  companion.  Praise  merit, 
though  it  belong  to  3'our  fiercest  foe,  your  rival  in  the 
affections  of  your  mistress,  the  man  from  whom  you  have 
borrowed  money,  or  taken  a  beating  in  private  ! " 

"  Mr.  Yorke,"  said  I,  clinching  my  fists  and  starting  uj), 

"  this  passes  endurance,  were  you  not  intox ;  "  but  two 

waiters  here  seized  and  held  me  down,  luckily  for  you. 


142      CRITICISMS  IN  LirERATURE  AND  ART, 

"  Peace,  Titmarsli "  (said  you)  ;  ^'  'twas  but  raillery.  Be 
honest,  my  friend,  is  all  that  I  would  say ;  and  if  you  write 
a  decent  article  on  the  exhibitions,  Mr.  Eraser  will  pay  you 
handsomely  for  your  trouble ;  and,  in  order  that  you  may 
have  every  facility  for  visiting  the  picture  galleries,  I 
myself  will  give  you  a  small  sum  in  hand.  Here  are  ten 
shillings.  Five  exhibitions,  five  shillings  ;  catalogues,  four. 
You  will  have  twelvepence  for  yourself,  to  take  refresh- 
ments in  the  intervals." 

I  held  out  my  hand,  for  my  anger  had  quite  disappeared. 

"  Mr.  Fraser,'-  said  you,  "  give  the  fellow  half  a  sover- 
eign ;  and,  for  Heaven's  sake,  teach  him  to  be  silent  when 
a  gentleman  is  speaking !  " 

What  passed  subsequently  need  not  be  stated  here,  but 
the  above  account  of  your  speech  is  a  pretty  correct  one ; 
and,  in  pursuance  of  your  orders,  I  busied  myself  with  the 
exhibitions  on  the  following  day.  The  result  of  my  labors 
will  be  found  in  the  accompanying  report.  I  have  the 
honor,  sir,  of  laying  it  at  your  feet,  and  of  subscribing 
myself, 

With  the  profoundest  respect  and  devotion, 
Sir, 
Your  very  faithful  and  obedient  Servant, 

Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh. 

Moreland^s  Coffee  House,  Dean  Street,  Soho. 


PA^^IliAIA    ^    rPAMMA    A'. 

The  Royat.  Academy. 

Had  the  author  of  the  following  paragraphs  the  pen  of 
a  Sir  Walter  Scott  or  a  Lady  Morgan,  he  would  write  some- 
thing excessively  brilliant  and  witty  about  the  first  day  of 
the  exhibition,  and  of  the  company  which  crowd  the  rooms 
upon  that  occasion.  On  Frida^^  the  queen  comes  (Heaven 
bless  her  Majesty!)  attended  by  her  courtiers  and  train; 
and  deigns,  with  royal  eyes,  to  examine  the  works  of  her 
lioyal  Academicians.  Her,  as  we  are  given  to  understand, 
the  president  receives,  bowing  profoundly,  awe-stricken; 
his  gold  chain  dangles  from  his  presidential  bosom,  and 
sweet  smiles  of  respectful  courtesy  light  up  his  venerable 
face.  Walking  by  her  Majesty's  side,  he  explains  to  her 
the  wonders  of   the  show.      "That,  may   it   please   your 


A   PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  143 

^lajesty,  is  a  picture  representing  yourself,  painted  by 
the  good  knight,  Sir  David  Wilkie :  deign  to  remark  how 
the  robes  seem  as  if  they  were  cut  out  of  British  oak,  and 
the  figure  is  as  wooden  as  the  figurehead  of  one  of  your 
Majesty's  men-of-war.  Opposite  is  your  Majesty's  royal 
consort,  by  ^Mr.  Patten.  We  have  the  honor  to  possess 
two  more  pairs  of  Pattens  in  this  Academy  —  ha,  ha ! 
Round  about  you  will  see  some  of  my  own  poor  works  of 
arc.  Yonder  is  ^Ir.  Landseer's  portrait  of  your  Majesty's 
own  cockatoo,  with  a  brace  of  Havadavats.  Please  your 
Koyal  Highness  to  look  at  the  bit  of  biscuit;  no  baker 
could  have  done  it  more  natural.  Fair  maid  of  honor,  look 
at  that  lump  of  sugar ;  couldn't  one  take  an  attidavit,  now, 
that  it  cost  elevenpence  a  pound  ?  Isn't  it  a  sweet  ?  I 
know  only  one  thing  sweeter,  and  that's  your  ladyship's 
lovely  face ! " 

In  such  lively  conversation  might  we  fancy  a  bland  pres- 
ident discoursing.  The  queen  should  make  august  replies  ; 
tlie  lovely  smiling  maids  of  honor  sliould  utter  remarks 
becoming  their  innocence  and  station  (turning  away  very 
red  from  that  corner  of  the  apartment  wliere  hang  cer- 
tain V(Miuses  and  Andromedas,  })ainted  by  William  Etty, 
Esquire) ;  the  gallant  prince,  a  lordly,  handsome  gentle- 
man, with  a  slight  foreign  accent,  should  curl  the  dark 
mustache  that  adorns  his  comely  lip,  and  say,  "  Potztau- 
send !  but  dat  bigture  of  First  Loaf  by  Herr  von  ^lulready 
ist  wunderschbn  ! "  and  courtly  chamberlains,  prim  gold- 
sticks,  and  si}'  polonaises  of  the  Court  should  take  their 
due  share  in  the  gay  scene,  and  deliver  their  portions  of 
the  dialogue  of  the  little  drama. 

All  this,  I  say,  might  be  done  in  a  very  sprightly  neat 
way,  were  poor  Titinarsh  an  Ainsworth  or  a  Lady  iVIorgan; 
and  the  scene  might  be  ended  smartly  with  the  knighting 
of  one  of  the  Academicians  by  her  Majesty  on  the  spot. 
As  thus :  — "  The  royal  party  had  stood  for  three  and 
twenty  minutes  in  mute  admiration  before  that  tremen- 
dous picture  by  ^Mr.  ^Laclise,  representing  the  banquet  in 
the  hall  of  Dunsinane.  '  Gory  shadow  of  Banquo,'  said  Lady 
Almeria  to  Lady  Wilhehnina,  'how  hideous  thou  ai-t ! ' 
'Hideous  I  hideous  yourself,  marry  !'  replied  the  arch  and 
lovely  '\\'ilhelniina.  •  By  my  halidome  ! '  whispered  the  sen- 
eschal to  the  venerable  prime  minister,  Lord  ]Melborough  ; 
— '  by  cock  and  pie.  Sir  Count,  but  it  seems  me  that  yon 
Scottish  kerne,  Macbeth,  hath  a  shrewd  look  of  terror!' 


144     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

'And  a  marvellous  unkempt  beard/  answered  the  Earl; 
'  and  a  huge  mouth  gaping  wide  for  very  terror,  and  a  hand 
palsied  with  fear.'  '  Hoot  awa,  mon  ! '  cried  an  old  Scots 
general,  but  the  chield  Macbeth  (I'm  descanded  from  him 
leeneally  in  the  saxty-ninth  generation)  knew  hoo  to  wield 
a  guid  claymore  ! '  '  His  hand  looks  as  if  it  had  dropped  a 
hot  potato ! '  whispered  a  roguish  page,  and  the  little 
knave's  remark  caused  a  titter  to  run  through  the  courtly 
circle,  and  brought  a  smile  upon  the  cheek  of  the  President 
of  the  Academy  ;  who,  sooth  to  say,  had  been  twiddling  his 
chain  of  office  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  somewhat 
jealous  of  the  praise  bestowed  upon  his  young  rival. 

"'My  Lord  of  Wellington,'  said  her  Majesty,  'lend  me 
your  sword.'  The  veteran,  smiling,  drew  forth  that  tren- 
chant sabre,  —  that  spotless  blade  of  battle  that  had  flashed 
victorious  on  the  jplains  of  far  Assaye,  in  the  breach  of 
storm-girt  Badajoz,  in  the  mighty  and  su2:)reme  combat  of 
Waterloo !  A  tear  stood  in  the  hero's  eye  as  he  fell  on  his 
gartered  knee  ;  and,  holding  the  blade  between  his  finger 
and  thumb,  he  presented  the  hilt  to  his  liege  lady.  'Take 
it,  madam,'  said  he;  'sheathe  it  in  this  old  breast,  if  you 
will,  for  my  heart  and  sword  are  my  sovereign's.  Take  it, 
madam,  and  be  not  angry  if  there  is  blood  upon  the  steel 
—  'tis  the  blood  of  the  enemies  of  iny  country!'  The 
queen  took  it ;  and  as  the  young  and  delicate  creature 
waved  that  tremendous  war-sword,  a  gentleman  near  her 
remarked,  that  surely  never  lighted  on  the  earth  a  more 
delightful  vision.  '  Where  is  Mr.  Maclise  ? '  said  her 
Majesty.  The  blushing  painter  stepped  forward.  '  Kneel ! 
kneel ! '  whispered  fifty  voices  :  and,  frightened,  he  did  as 
they  ordered  him.  '  Sure  she's  not  going  to  cut  my  head 
off  ?  '  he  cried  to  the  good  knights,  Sir  Augustus  Callcott 
and  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  were  standing.  '  Your  name, 
sir  ?  '  said  the  Ladye  of  England.  '  Sure  you  know  it's 
Maclise  ! '  cried  the  son  of  Erin.  '  Your  Christian  name  ?  ' 
shrieked  Sir  Martin  Shee,  in  agony.  '  Christian  name,  is 
it  ?  Oh,  then,  it's  Daniel  Malcolm,  your  Majesty,  and  much 
at  your  service  ! '  She  waved  the  sword  majestically  over 
his  head,  and  said,  '  Eise  up,  Sir  Malcolm  Maclise  ! ' 

"  The  ceremony  was  concluded,  the  brilliant  cort'ege  moved 
away,  the  royal  barouches  received  the  illustrious  party, 
the  heralds  cried,  'Largesse,  Largesse!'  and  flung  silver 
pennies  among  the  shouting  crowds  in  Trafalgar  Square ; 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  145 

and  when  the  last  man-at-arms  that  accompanied  the  royal 
train  had  disappeared,  the  loud  vivas  of  the  crowd  were 
heard  no  more,  the  shrill  song  of  the  silver  clarions  had 
died  away,  his  brother  painters  congratulated  the  newly 
dubbed  chevalier,  and  retired  to  partake  of  a  slight  collation 
of  bread  and  cheese  and  porter  in  the  keeper's  apartments." 

Were  we,  I  say,  inclined  to  be  romantic,  did  we  dare  to 
be  imaginative,  such  a  scene  might  be  depicted  with  con- 
siderable effect ;  but,  as  it  is,  we  must  not  allow  poor  fancy 
to  get  the  better  of  reason,  and  declare  that  to  write  any- 
thing of  the  sort  would  be  perfectly  uncalled  for  and 
absurd.  Let  it  simply  be  stated  that  on  the  Friday  her 
^[ajesty  comes  and  goes.  On  the  Saturday  the  Academi- 
cians have  a  private  view  for  the  great  personages;  the 
lords  of  the  empire  and  their  ladies,  the  editors  of  the 
newspapers  and  their  friends  ;  and,  after  they  have  seen  as 
much  as  possible,  about  seven  o'clock  the  Academicians 
give  a  grand  feed  to  their  friends  and  patrons. 

In  the  arrangement  of  this  banquet,  let  us  say  roundly 
that  Messieurs  de  I'Academie  are  vastly  too  aristocratic. 
Why  were  we  not  asked  ?  The  dinner  is  said  to  be  done 
by  Gunter ;  and,  though  the  soup  and  fish  are  notoriously 
cold  and  uncomfortable,  we  are  by  no  means  squeamish, 
and  would  pass  over  this  gross  piece  of  neglect.  We  long, 
too,  to  hear  a  bishop  say  grace,  and  to  sit  cheek  by  jowl 
with  a  duke  or  two.  Besides,  we  could  make  some  return ; 
a  good  joke  is  worth  a  plateful  of  turtle  ;  a  smart  brisk  pun 
is  quite  as  valuable  as  a  bottle  of  champagne  ;  a  neat  anec- 
dote deserves  a  slice  of  venison,  with  plenty  of  fat  and 
currant  jelly,  and  so  on.  On  such  principles  of  barter  we 
might  be  disposed  to  treat.  But  a  plague  on  this  ribaldry 
and  beating  about  the  bush  !  let  us  leave  the  plates,  and 
come  at  once  to  the  pictures. 

Once  or  twice  before,  in  the  columns  of  this  Magazine, 
we  have  imparted  to  the  public  our  notions  about  Greek 
art,  and  its  manifold  deadly  errors.  The  contemplation  of 
such  specimens  of  it  as  we  possess  hath  always,  to  tell  the 
truth,  left  us  in  a  state  of  unpleasant  wonderment  and  per- 
plexity. It  carries  corporeal  beauty  to  a  pitch  of  painful 
perfection,  and  deifies  the  body  and  bones  truly :  but,  by 
dint  of  sheer  beauty,  it  leaves  humanity  altogether  inhu- 
man—  quite  heartless  and  passionless.  Look  at  Apollo 
the    divine  :    there   ia   no  blood   in   his    marble  veins,  no 


146     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

warmth  in  his  bosom,  no  fire  or  speculation  in  his  dull 
awful  eyes.  Laocoon  writhes  and  twists  in  an  anguish  that 
never  can,  in  the  breast  of  any  spectator,  create  the  small- 
est degree  of  pity.     Diana, 

"La  chasseresse 
Blanche,  au  sein  virginal, 

Qui  presse 
Quelque  cerf  matinal,"  * 

may  run  from  this  till  Doomsday  ;  and  we  feel  no  desire 
to  join  the  cold  passionless  huntress  in  her  ghostly  chase. 
Such  monsters  of  beauty  are  quite  out  of  the  reach  of 
human  sympathy :  they  were  purposely  (by  the  poor  be- 
nighted heathens  who  followed  this  error,  and  strove  to 
make  their  error  as  grand  as  possible)  placed  beyond  it. 
They  seemed  to  think  that  human  joy  and  sorrow,  pas- 
sion and  love,  were  mean  and  contemptible  in  themselves. 
Their  gods  were  to  be  calm,  and  share  in  no  such  feelings. 
How  much  grander  is  the  character  of  the  Christian  school, 
which  teaches  that  love  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  things, 
and  the  first  and  highest  element  of  beauty  in  art ! 

I  don't  know,  madam,  whether  I  make  myself  clearly 
understood  in  saying  so  much  ;  but  if  you  will  have  the 
kindness  to  look  at  a  certain  little  picture  by  Mr.  Eastlake 
in  this  gallery,  you  will  see  to  what  the  observation  applies, 
and  that  out  of  a  homely  subject,  and  a  few  simple  figures 
not  at  all  wonderful  for  excessive  beauty  or  grandeur,  the 
artist  can  make  something  infinitely  more  beautiful  than 
Medicean  Venuses  and  sublimer  than  Pythian  Apollos. 
Happy  are  you,  Charles  Lock  Eastlake,  Esquire,  R.A.  !  I 
think  you  have  in  your  breast  some  of  that  sacred  fire  that 
lighted  the  bosom  of  Eaphael  Sanctius,  Esquire,  of  Urbino, 
he  being  a  young  man,  —  a  holy  kind  of  Sabbath  repose  — 
a  calm  that  comes  not  of  feeling,  but  of  the  overflowing  of 
it  —  a  tender  yearning  sympathy  and  love  for  God's  beau- 
tiful world  and  creatures.  Impelled  by  such  a  delightful 
sentiment,  the  gentle  spirit  of  him  in  whom  it  dwells  (like 
the  angels  of  old,  who  first  taught  us  to  receive  the  doc- 
trine that  love  was  the  key  to  the  world)  breathes  always 
peace  on  earth  and  good  will  towards  men.  And  though 
the  ])rivilege  of  enjoying  this  happy  frame  of  mind  is 
accorded  to  the  humblest  as  well  as  the  most  gifted  genuis, 
yet  the  latter  must  remember  that  the  intellect  can  exercise 

*  Alfred  do  Musset. 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  147 

itself  in  no  higher  way  than  in  the  practice  of  this  kind  of 
adoration  and  gratitude.  The  great  artist  who  is  the  priest 
of  nature  is  consecrated  especially  to  this  service  of  praise ; 
and  though  it  may  have  no  direct  relation  to  religious  sub- 
jects, the  view  of  a  picture  of  the  highest  order  does  always, 
like  the  view  of  stars  in  a  calm  nightj  or  a  fair  quiet  land- 
scape in  sunshine,  till  the  mind  witTi  an  inexpressible  con- 
tent and  gratitude  towards  the  Maker  who  has  created  such 
beautiful  things  for  our  use. 

And  as  the  poet  has  told  us  how,  not  out  of  a  wide  land- 
scape merely,  or  a  sublime  expanse  of  glittering  stars,  but 
of  any  very  humble  thing,  we  may  gather  the  same  delight- 
ful reflections  (as  out  of  a  small  flower,  that  brings  us 
'•thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears  ")  —  in  like 
manner  we  do  not  want  grand  pictures  and  elaborate  yards 
of  canvas  so  to  affect  us,  as  the  lover  of  drawing  must  have 
felt  in  looking  at  the  Raphael  designs  lately  exhibited  in 
London.  These  were  little  faint  scraps,  inostly  from  the 
artist's  pencil  —  small  groups,  unfinished  single  flgures,  just 
indicated  ;  but  the  divine  elements  of  beauty  were  as  strong 
in  them  as  in  the  grandest  pieces  :  and  there  were  many 
little  sketches,  not  half  an  inch  high,  which  charmed  and 
affected  one  like  the  violet  did  Wordsworth  ;  and  left  one 
in  that  unspeakable,  complacent,  grateful  condition,  which, 
as  I  have  been  endeavoring  to  state,  is  the  highest  aim  of 
the  art. 

And  if  I  might  be  allowed  to  give  a  hint  to  amateurs 
concerning  pictures  and  their  merit,  I  would  say  look  to 
have  your  heart  touched  by  them.  The  best  paintings 
address  themselves  to  the  best  feelings  of  it ;  and  a  great 
many  very  clever  pictures  do  not  touch  it  at  all.  Skill  and 
handling  are  great  parts  of  a  painter's  trade,  but  heart  is 
the  flrst ;  this  -is  God's  direct  gift  to  him,  and  cannot  be 
got  in  any  academy,  or  under  any  master.  Look  about, 
therefore,  for  pictures,  be  they  large  or  small,  flnished 
well  or  ill,  landscapes,  portrait's,  flgure-pieces,  pen-and-ink 
sketches,  or  what  not,  that  contain  sentiment  and  great 
ideas.  He  who  possesses  these  will  be  sure  to  express 
them  more  or  less  well.  Xever  mind  about  the  manner. 
He  who  possesses  them  not  may  draw  and  color  to  perfec- 
tion, and  yet  be  no  artist.  As  for  telling  you  what  senti- 
ment is,  and  what  it  is  not,  wherein  lies  the  secret  of  the 
sublime,  there,  madam,  we  must  stop  altogether ;  only, 
after  reading  Burke  "  On  the  Sublime,"  you  will  find  your- 


148     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND    ART. 

self  exactly  as  wise  as  you  were  before.  I  cannot  tell  why 
a  landscape  by  Claude  or  Constable  should  be  more  beauti- 
ful—  it  is  certainly  not  more  dexterous  —  than  a  landscape 

by  Mr. or  jNIr. .     1  cannot  tell  why  Eaphael  should 

be  superior  to  Mr.  Benjamin  Hay  don  (a  fact  which  one  per- 
son in  the  world  may  be  perhaps  inclined  to  doubt);  or 
why  "Vedrai,  carino,"  in  -'Don  Juan,"  should  be  more 
charming  to  me  than  "Suoni  la  tromba,"  before  mentioned. 
The  latter  has  twice  as  much  drumming,  trumpeting,  and 
thundering  in  it.  All  these  points  are  quite  undehnable 
and  inexplicable  (I  never  read  a  metaphysical  account  of 
them  that  did  not  seem  sheer  dulness  and  nonsense)  ;  but 
we  can  have  no  doubt  about  them.  And  thus  we  come  to 
Charles  Lock  Eastlake,  Esquire,  from  whom  we  started 
about  a  page  since  ;  during  which  we  have  laid  down, 
first,  that  sentiment  is  the  first  quality  of  a  picture ; 
second,  that  to  say  whether  this  sentiment  exists  or  no 
rests  with  the  individual  entirely,  the  sentiment  not  being 
capable  of  any  sort  of  definition.  Charles  Lock  Eastlake, 
Esquire,  possesses,  to  my  thinking,  this  undefinable  arch- 
quality  of  sentiment  to  a  very  high  degree.  And,  besides 
him,  let  us  mention  William  Mulready,  Esquire,  Cope, 
Boxall,  Redgrave,  Herbert  (the  two  latter  don't  show  so 
much  of  it  this  year  as  formerly),  and  Richmond. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  as  pure  as  a  Sabbath  hymn 
sung  by  the  voices  of  children.  He  has  taken  a  very  sim- 
ple subject  —  hardly  any  subject  at  all ;  but  such  suggest- 
ive points  are  the  best,  perhaps,  that  a  painter  can  take  ; 
for  with  the  illustration  of  a  given  subject  out  of  a  history 
or  romance,  when  one  has  seen  it,  one  has  commonly  seen 
all,  whereas  such  a  piece  as  this,  which  jNIr.  Eastlake  calls, 
"  The  Salutation  of  the  Aged  Friar,"  brings  the  spectator 
to  a  delightful  peaceful  state  of  mind,  and  gives  him  matter 
to  ponder  upon  long  after.  The  story  of  this  piece  is  sim- 
ply this  :  —  A  group  of  innocent  happy-looking  Italian  peas- 
ants are  approaching  a  couple  of  friars  ;  a  boy  has  stepped 
forward  with  a  little  flower,  which  he  presents  to  the  elder 
of  these,  and  the  old  monk  is  giving  him  his  blessing. 

Now,  it  would  be  very  easy  to  find  fault  with  this  picture, 
and  complain  of  excessive  redness  in  the  shadows,  exces- 
sive whiteness  in  the  linen,  of  repetition  in  the  faces,  — 
the  smallest  child  is  the  very  counterpart  of  one  in  the 
"Christ  and  the  Little  Children"  by  the  same  artist  last 
year  —  the  women  are  not  only  copies  of  women   before 


A    PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY.  140 

painted  by  'Mv.  Eastlake,  but  absolutely  copies  of  one 
another ;  the  drawing  lacks  vigor,  the  flesh-tints  variety 
(they  seem  to  be  produced,  by  the  most  careful  stippling, 
with  a  brilliant  composition  of  lake  and  burnt  sienna, 
cooled  off  as  they  come  to  the  edges  with  a  little  blue). 
But  though,  in  the  writer's  judgment,  there  are  in  the  pic- 
ture every  one  of  these  faults,  the  merits  of  the  perform- 
ance incomparably  exceed  them,  and  these  are  of  the  purely 
sentimental  and  intellectual  kinds.  What  a  tender  grace 
and  purity  in  the  female  heads  !  If  Mr.  Eastlake  repeats 
his  model  often,  at  least  he  has  been  very  luck}-  in  finding 
or  making  her :  indeed,  I  don't  know  in  any  painter,  an- 
cient or  modern,  such  a  charming  character  of  female 
beauty.  The  countenances  of  the  monks  are  full  of  unc- 
tion ;  the  children,  with  their  mild  beaming  eyes,  are  fresh 
with  recollections  of  heaven.  There  is  no  affectation  of 
middle-age  mannerism,  such  as  silly  Germans  and  silly 
Frenchmen  are  wont  to  call  Catholic  art ;  and  the  picture 
is  truly  Catholic  in  consequence,  having  about  it  what  the 
hymn  calls  ''solemn  mirth,"  and  giving  the  spectator  the 
utmost  possible  pleasure  in  viewing  it.  Now,  if  we  might 
suggest  to  ]Mr.  Lane,  the  lithographer,  how  he  might  confer 
a  vast  benefit  u])on  the  public,  we  would  entreat  him  to 
make  several  large  copies  of  pictures  of  this  class,  execut- 
ing them  with  that  admirable  grace  and  fidelity  which  are 
the  characteristics  of  all  his  copies.  Let  these  be  colored 
accurately,  as  they  might  be,  at  a  small  charge,  and  poor 
people  for  a  few  guineas  might  speedily  make  for  them- 
selves delightful  picture  galleries.  The  color  adds  amaz- 
ingly to  the  charm  of  these  pictures,  and  attracts  the  eye 
to  them.  And  they  are  such  placid  pious  companions  for  a 
man's  study,  that  the  continual  presence  of  them  could  not 
fail  to  purify  his  taste  and  his  heart. 

I  am  not  here  arguing,  let  it  be  remembered,  that  ^Ir. 
Eastlake  is  absolute  perfection  ;  and  will  concede  to  those 
who  find  fault  with  him  that  his  works  are  deficient  in 
power,  however  remarkable  for  grace.  Be  it  so.  But,  then, 
let  us  admire  his  skill  in  choosing  such  subjects  as  are  best 
suited  to  his  style  of  thinking,  and  least  likely  to  show  his 
faults.  In  the  pieces  ordinarily  painted  by  him,  grace  and 
tender  feeling  are  the  chief  requisites  ;  and  I  don't  recollect 
a  work  of  his  in  which  he  has  aimed  at  other  qualities. 
One  more  picture  besides  the  old  Eriar  has  Mr.  Eastlake, 
a  portrait  of  that  beautiful  Miss  Bury,  whom  our  readers 


150     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

must  recollect  in  the  old  house,  in  a  black  mantle,  a  red 
gown,  with  long  golden  hair  waving  over  her  shoulders,  and 
a  lily  in  her  hand.  The  picture  was  engraved  afterwards 
in  one  of  the  Annuals;  and  was  one  of  the  most  delightful 
works  that  ever  came  froju  Mr.  E'astlake's  pencil.  I  can't 
say  as  much  for  the  present  portrait :  the  picture  wants 
relief,  and  is  very  odd  and  heavy  in  color.  The  handsome 
lad}^  looks  as  if  she  wanted  her  stays.  0  beautiful  lily- 
bearer  of  six  years  since !  you  should  not  have  appeared  like 
a  mortal  after  having  once  shone  upon  us  as  an  angel. 

And  now  we  are  come  to  the  man  whom  we  delight  to 
honor,  Mr.  Mulready,  who  has  three  pictures  in  the  exhibi- 
tion that  are  all  charming  in  their  way.  The  first  ("  Fair 
Time,"  116)  was  painted,  it  is  said,  more  than  a  score  of 
years  since ;  and  the  observer  ma}^  look  into  it  with  some 
payment  for  his  curiosit}^,  for  it  contains  specimens  of  the 
artist's  old  and  new  manner.  The  picture  in  its  first  state 
is  somewhat  in  the  Wilkie  style  of  that  day  (oh,  for  the 
Wilkie  style  of  that  day !),  having  many  grays,  and  imi- 
tating closely  the  Dutchmen.  Since  then  the  painter  has 
been  touching  up  the  figures  in  the  foreground  with  his  new 
and  favorite  lurid  orange-color ;  and  you  may  see  how  this  is 
stippled  in  upon  the  faces  and  hands,  and  borrow,  perhaps, 
a  hint  or  two  regarding  the  Mulreadian  secret. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  strange  color  ?  —  these 
glowing  burning  crimsons,  and  intense  blues,  and  greens 
more  green  than  the  first  budding  leaves  of  spring  or  the 
mignonette-pots  in  a  Cockney's  window  at  Brixton.  But 
don't  fancy  that  we  are  joking  or  about  to  joke  at  Mr.  Mul- 
ready. These  gaudy  prismatic  colors  are  wonderfully 
captivating  to  the  eye  :  and,  amidst  a  host  of  pictures,  it 
cannot  fail  to  settle  on  a  Mulready  in  preference  to  all.  But, 
for  consistency's  sake,  a  protest  must  be  put  in  figainst  the 
color ;  it  is  pleasant,  but  wrong ;  we  never  saw  it  in  nature 
—  not  even  when  looking  through  an  orange-colored  glass. 
Tliis  point  being  settled,  then,  and  our  minds  eased,  let  us 
look  at  the  design  and  conception  of  "  First  Love ; "  and 
pray,  sir,  where  in  the  whole  works  of  modern  artists  will 
you  find  anything  more  exquisitely  beautiful?  I  don't 
know  what  that  young  fellow,  so  solemn,  so  tender,  is 
whispering  into  the  ear  of  that  dear  girl  (she  is  only  fifteen 
now,  but,  sapristi,  how  beautiful  she  will  be  about  three 
years  hence  !),  who  is  folding  a  pair  of  slim  arms  round  a 
little  baby,  and  making  believe  to  nurse  it,  as  they  three  are 


A  PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY.  151 

standing  one  glowing  summer  day  under  some  trees  by  a 
stile.  I  don't  know,  I  say,  what  they  are  saying  ;  nor,  if  I 
could  hear,  would  I  tell  —  'tis  a  secret,  madam.  Recollect  the 
words  that  the  Captain  whispered  in  your  ear  that  afternoon 
in  the  shrubbery.  Your  heart  throbs,  your  cheek  tiushes ; 
the  sweet  sound  of  those  words  tells  clear  upon  your  ear, 
and  you  say,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Titmarsh,  how  can  you  ?  "  Be  not 
afraid,  madam  —  never,  never  will  I  peach  ;  but  slug,  in  the 
words  of  a  poet  who  is  occasionally  quoted  in  the  House  of 
Commons  — 

"  Est  et  fideli  tnta  silentio 

Merces.     Vetabo  qui  Cereris  sacrum 
Vul^arit  arcanie,  sub  isdeui 
Sit  trabibus,  fragilemve  mecum 

Sol  vat  pbaseluin." 

Which  may  be  interpreted  (with  a  slight  alteration  of  the 
name  of  Ceres  for  that  of  a  much  more  agreeable  goddess)  — 

Be  happy,  and  thy  counsel  keep, 
'Tis  tluis  the  bard  adviselh  thee  ; 

Remember  tbat  the  silent  lip 
In  silence  shall  rewarded  be. 

And  dy  the  wretch  who  dares  to  strip 
Love  of  its  sacred  mystery. 

My  loyal  less  I  would  not  stretch 

Beneath  the  same  unhogany  ; 
Nor  trust  myself  iu  Ciielsea  lieach, 

In  punt  or  skiff,  with  such  as  he. 
The  villain  who  would  kiss  and  peach, 

I  hold  him  for  mine  enemy  ! 

But,  to  return  to  our  muttons,  I  would  not  give  a  fig  for  the 
taste  of  the  individual  who  does  not  see  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  tliis  little  group.  Our  artist  has  more  passion 
than  the  before-lauded  Mr.  Eastlake,  but  quite  as  much 
delicacy  and  tenderness  ;  and  they  seem  to  me  to  possess 
the  poetry  of  picture-making  more  than  any  other  of  their 
brethren. 

By  the  way,  what  is  this  insane  yell  that  has  been  raised 
throughout  the  public  press  about  ^Ir.  Mulready's  other 
performance,  the  postage  cover,  and  why  are  the  sages  so 
bitter  against  it  ?  The  Times  says  it  is  disgraceful  and 
ludicrous  ;  the  elegant  writers  of  the  Weekly  Dispatch  vow 
it  is  ludicrous  and  disgraceful ;  the  same  sweet  song  is 
echoed  by  papers,  Radical  and  Conservative,  in  London  and 
the  provinces,  all  the  literary  gentlemen  being  alive,  and 


152     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

smarting  under  this  insult  to  the  arts  of  the  country.  Hon- 
est gentlemen  of  the  press,  be  not  so  thin-skinned !  Take 
my  word  for  it,  there  is  no  cause  for  such  vehement  anger  — 
no  good  opportunity  here  for  you  to  show  of£  that  exquisite 
knowledge  of  the  tine  arts  for  which  you  are  so  celebrated 
throughout  the  w^orld.  Gentlemen,  the  drawing  of  which 
you  complain  is  not  bad.  The  commonest  engravers,  who 
would  be  ashamed  to  produce  such  a  design,  will  tell  you, 
if  they  know  anything  of  their  business,  that  they  could  not 
make  a  better  in  a  hurry.  Every  man  who  knows  what 
drawing  is  will  acknowledge  that  some  of  these  little  groups 
are  charmingly  drawn  ;  and  I  will  trouble  your  commonest 
engravers  to  design  the  Chinese  group,  the  American,  or  the 
West  Indian,  in  a  manner  more  graceful  and  more  char- 
acteristic than  that  of  the  much-bespattered  post  envelope. 
I  am  not  holding  up  the  whole  affair  as  a  masterpiece  — pas 
si  hete.  The  "triumphant  hallegory  of  Britannia  ruling  the 
weaves,"  as  Mathews  used  to  call  it,  is  a  little  stale,  certainly, 
nowadays  ;  but  what  would  you  have  ?  How  is  the  sublime 
to  be  elicited  from  such  a  subject  ?  Let  some  of  the  com- 
mon engravers,  in  their  leisure  moments,  since  the  thing  is 
so  easy,  make  a  better  design,  or  the  literary  men  who  are 
so  indignant  invent  one.  The  Government,  no  doubt,  is  not 
bound  heart  and  soul  to  Mr.  Mulready,  and  is  willing  to  hear 
reason.  Fiat  justitia,  mat  caelum :  though  all  the  world 
shall  turn  on  thee,  0  Government,  in  this  instance  Titmarsh 
shall  stand  by  thee  —  ay,  and  without  any  hope  of  reward. 
To  be  sure,  if  my  Lord  Normanby  absolutely  insists  —  but 
that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I  repeat,  the  Post  Office  en- 
velope is  not  bad,  quoad  design.  That  very  lion,  which 
some  of  the  men  of  the  press  (the  Daniels  !)  have  been  cry- 
ing out  about,  is  finely,  carefully,  and  characteristically 
sketched ;  those  elephants  I  am  sure  were  closely  studied, 
before  the  artist  in  a  few  lines  laid  them  down  on  his  wood- 
block; and  as  for  the  persons  who  are  to  imitate  the 
engraving  so  exactly,  let  them  try.  It  has  been  done  by 
the  best  wood-engraver  in  Europe.  Ask  any  man  in  the 
profession  if  Mr.  Thompson  is  not  at  the  head  of  it  ?  He 
has  bestowed  on  it  a  vast  deal  of  time,  and  skill,  and  labor ; 
and  all  who  know  the  difficulties  of  wood-engraving  —  of 
outline  wood-engraving  —  and  of  rendering  faithfully  a 
design  so  very  minute  as  this,  will  smile  at  the  sages  who 
declare  that  all  the  world  could  forge  it.  There  was  one 
provincial  paper  which  declared,  in  a  style  peculiarly  ele- 


A    PICTORIAL  RHAPSODY.  153 

gant,  that  a  man  "  with  a  block  of  wood  and  a  hread-and- 
cheese  knife  could  easily  imitate  the  envelope  ; ''  which 
remark,  for  its  profound  truth  and  sagacity,  the  London 
journals  copied.  For  shame,  gentlemen  !  Do  you  think  you 
show  your  knowledge  by  adopting  such  opinions  as  these, 
or  prove  your  taste  by  clothing  yourselves  in  the  second- 
hand garments  of  the  rustic  who  talks  about  bread  and 
cheese  ?  Try,  Tyrotomos,  upon  whatever  block  thou  chocs- 
est  to  practise  ;  or,  be  wise,  and  with  appropriate  bread-and- 
cheese  knife  cut  only  bread  and  cheese.  Of  bread,  white 
and  brown,  of  cheese,  old,  new,  mouldy,  toasted,  the  writer 
of  the  Double- G lost er  Journal,  the  Stilton  Examiner,  the 
Cheddar  Champion,  and  North  Wiltshire  Intelligencer,  may 
possibly  be  a  competent  critic,  and  (with  mouth  replete 
with  the  delicious  condiment)  may  no  doubt  eloquentl}^ 
speak.  But  let  us  be  cautious  before  we  agree  to  and 
admiringly  adopt  his  opinions  upon  matters  of  art.  Mr. 
Thompson  is  the  first  wood-engraver  in  our  country  —  ^fr. 
Mulready  one  of  the  best  painters  in  our  or  any  school ;  it 
is  hard  that  such  men  are  to  be  assailed  in  such  language, 
and  by  such  a  critic  ! 

This  artist's  picture  of  an  interior  is  remarkable  for  the 
same  exaggerated  color,  and  for  the  same  excellences.  The 
landscape  seen  from  the  window  is  beautifully  solemn,  and 
very  finely  painted,  in  the  clear  bright  manner  of  Van 
Dyck  and  Cranach,  and  the  early  German  school. 

]\[r.  Richmond's  i)ieture  of  "Our  Lord  after  the  Resur- 
rection "  deserves  a  much  better  place  than  it  has  in  the 
little,  dingy,  newly  discovered  octagon  closet;  and  leaves 
us  to  regret  that  he  should  occupy  himself  so  much  with 
water-color  portraits,  and  so  little  with  compositions  in  oil. 
This  picture  is  beautifully  conceived,  and  very  finely  and 
carefully  drawn  and  painted.  One  of  the  apostles  is  copied 
from  liaphael,  and  the  more  is  the  pity  :  a  man  who  could 
execute  two  such  grand  figures  as  the  other  two  in  the 
picture  need  surely  borrow  from  no  one.  A  water-color 
group  by  the  same  artist  (547,  "  The  Children  of  Colonel 
Lindsay  ")  contains  two  charming  figures  of  a  young  lady 
and  a  little  boy,  painted  with  great  care  and  precision  of 
design  and  color,  with  great  purity  of  sentiment,  and  with- 
out the  least  aifectation.  Let  our  aristocracy  send  their 
wives  and  children  (the  handsomest  wives  and  children  in 
the  world)  to  be  painted  by  this  gentleman,  and  those  who 
are  like  him.     jMiss  Lindsay,  with  her  plain  red  dress  and 


154     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

modest  looks,  is  surely  a  thousand  times  more  captivating 
than  those  dangerous  smiling  Delilahs  in  her  neighborhood, 
whom  ]\[r.  Chalon  has  painted.  We  must  not  be  under- 
stood to  undervalue  this  latter  gentleman,  however ;  his 
drawings  are  miracles  of  dexterity  ;  every  year  they  seem 
to  be  more  skilful  and  more  brilliant.  Such  satins  and  lace, 
such  diamond  rings  and  charming  little  lapdogs,  were  never 
painted  before,  —  not  by  Watteau,  the  first  master  of  the 
genre,  —  nor  by  Lancret,  who  was  scarcely  his  inferior.  A 
miniature  on  ivory  by  Mr.  Chalon,  among  the  thousand 
prim,  pretty  little  pictures  of  the  same  class  which  all  the 
ladies  crowd  about,  is  remarkable  for  its  brilliancy  of  color 
and  charming  freedom  of  handling;  as  is  an  oil  sketch  of 
masquerading  figures,  by  the  same  painter,  for  the  curious 
coarseness  of  the  painting. 

Before  we  leave  the  high-class  pictures,  we  must  mention 
Mr.  Boxall's  beautiful  "  Hope,"  which  is  exquisitely  refined 
and  delicate  in  sentiment,  color,  and  execution.  Placed 
close  beneath  one  of  Turner's  magnificent  tornadoes  of 
color,  it  loses  none  of  its  own  beauty.  As  Uhland  writes 
of  a  certain  king  and  queen  who  are  seated  in  state  side  by 
side,  — 

''  Der  Turner  fiirchtbar  prachtig  wie  blut'ger  Nordlichtschein, 
TiQV  Boxall  siiss  und  milde,  als  blickte  Volnuond  drein." 

Which  signifies  in  English  that,  — 

"  As  beams  the  moon  so  gentle  near  the  sun,  that  blood-red  burner, 
So  shineth  William  Boxall  by  Joseph  Mallord  Turner." 

In  another  part  of  the  room,  and  contrasting  their  quiet 
grace  in  the  same  way  with  Mr.  Turner's  glaring  colors,  are 
a  couple  of  delightful  pictures  by  Mr.  Cope,  with  mottoes 
that  will  explain  their  subjects.  "  Help  thy  father  in  his 
age,  and  despise  him  not  when  thou  art  in  thy  full 
strength;"  and  "Reject  not  the  affliction  of  the  afilicted, 
neither  turn  away  thy  face  from  a  poor  man."  The  latter 
of  these  pictures  is  especially  beautiful,  and  the  figure  of 
the  female  charity  as  graceful  and  delicate  as  may  be.  I 
wish  I  could  say  a  great  deal  in  praise  of  Mr.  Cope's  large 
altar-piece  :  it  is  a  very  meritorious  performance  ;  but  here 
praise  stops,  and  such  praise  is  worth  exactly  nothing.  A 
large  picture  must  either  be  splendid,  or  else  naught.  This 
"  Crucifixion  "  has  a  great  deal  of  vigor,  feeling,  grace ;  but 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  155 

—  the  but  is  fatal  ;  all  minor  praises  are  drowned  in  it. 
Recollect,  however,  Mr.  Cope,  that  Titmarsh,  who  writes 
this,  is  only  giving  his  private  opinion;  that  he  is  mortal; 
that  it  is  barely  possible  that  he  should  be  in  the  wrong ; 
and  witli  this  confession,  which  I  am  compelled  (for  fear 
you  might  overlook  the  circumstance)  to  make,  you  will,  I 
dare  say,  console  yourself,  and  do  well.  But  men  must 
gird  themselves,  and  go  through  long  trainings,  before  tliey 
can  execute  such  gigantic  works  as  altar-pieces.  Handel, 
doubtless,  wrote  many  little  pleasing  melodies  before  he 
pealed  out  the  "  Hallelujah  "  chorus  ;  and  so  painters  will 
do  well  to  try  their  powers,  and,  if  possible,  measure  and 
understand  them,  before  they  use  them.  There  is  Mr. 
Hart,  for  instance,  who  took  in  an  evil  hour  to  the  making 
of  great  pictures ;  in  the  present  exhibition  is  a  decently 
small  one;  but  the  artist  has  overstretched  himself  in  tlie 
former  attempts;  as  one  hears  of  gentlemen  on  the  rack, 
the  limbs  are  stretched  one  or  two  inches  by  the  process, 
and  the  ])atient  comes  away  by  so  much  the  taller :  but  he 
can't  walk  near  so  well  as  before,  and  all  his  strength  is 
stretched  out  of  him. 

Let  this  be  a  solemn  hint  to  a  clever  young  painter,  ^NFr. 
Elmore,  who  has  painted  a  clever  picture  of  "The  Murder 
of  Saint  Thomas  h  Becket,"  for  Mr.  Daniel  O'Connell. 
Come  off  your  rack,  ]Mr.  Elmore,  or  you  will  hurt  yourself. 
Much  better  is  it  to  paint  small  subjects,  for  some  time  at 
least.  "Non  cuivis  contingit  adire  Corinthum,"  as  the 
proverb  says  ;  but  there  is  a  number  of  pleasant  villages  in 
this  world  beside,  where  we  may  snugly  take  up  our 
quarters.  By  the  way,  what  is  the  meaning  of  Tom  a 
Becket's  black  cassock  under  his  canonicals  ?  Would  John 
Tuam  celebrate  mass  in  such  a  dress  ?  A  painter  should 
be  as  careful  about  his  costumes  as  an  historian  about  his 
dates,  or  he  plays  the  deuce  with  his  composition. 

Now,  in  this  matter  of  costume,  nobody  can  be  more 
scrupulous  than  ]\[r.  Charles  Landseer,  wliose  picture  of 
Xell  Gwynne  is  painted  with  admirable  effect,  and  honest 
scrupulousness.  It  is  very  good  in  color,  very  gay  in 
spirits  (perhaps  too  refined  —  for  Xelly  never  was  such  a 
hypocrite  as  to  look  as  modest  as  that)  ;  but  the  gentlemen 
and  ladies  do  not  look  as  if  they  were  accustomed  to  their 
dresses,  for  all  their  correctness,  but  had  put  them  on  for 
the  first  time.  Indeed,  this  is  a  very  small  fault,  and  the 
merits  of  the  picture  are  very  great :  every  one  of  the  ac- 


156     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

cessories  is  curiously  well  painted,  —  some  of  the  figures 
very  spirited  (the  drawer  is  excellent)  :  and  the  picture 
one  of  the  most  agreeable  in  the  whole  gallery.  Mr.  Red- 
grave has  another  costume  picture,  of  a  rather  old  subject, 
from  "The  Rambler."  A  poor  girl  comes  to  be  companion 
to  jNIr.  and  Mrs.  Courtly,  who  are  at  piquet ;  their  servants 
are  bringing  in  tea,  and  the  master  and  mistress  are  looking 
at  the  new-comer  with  a  great  deal  of  easy  scorn.  The  poor 
girl  is  charming ;  Mrs.  Courtly  not  quite  genteel,  but  with 
a  wonderful  quilted  petticoat ;  Courtly  looks  as  if  he  were 
not  accustomed  to  his  clothes ;  the  servants  are  very  good ; 
and  as  for  the  properties,  as  they  would  be  called  on  the 
stage,  these  are  almost  too  good,  painted  with  a  daguerreo- 
typical  minuteness  that  gives  this  and  Mr.  Redgrave's 
other  picture  of  "  Paracelsus  "  a  finikin  air,  if  we  may  use 
such  a  disrespectful  term.  Both  performances,  however, 
contain  very  high  merit  of  expression  and  sentiment ;  and 
are  of  such  a  character  as  we  seldom  saw  in  our  schools 
twenty  years  ago. 

There  is  a  large  picture  by  a  Scotch  artist,  Mr.  Duncan, 
representing  "  The  Entry  of  Charles  Edward  into  Edin- 
burgh," which  runs  a  little  into  caricature,  but  contains  a 
vast  deal  of  character  and  merit ;  and  which,  above  all,  in 
the  article  of  costume,  shows  much  study  and  taste.  Mr. 
Duncan  seems  to  have  formed  his  style  upon  Mr.  Allan  and 
Mr.  Wilkie  —  I  beg  his  pardon  —  Sir  David.  The  former 
has  a  pleasing  brown  picture  likewise  on  the  subject  of  the 
Pretender.  The  latter's  Maid  of  Saragossa  and  Spaniard  at 
the  gun,  any  one  may  see  habited  as  Irish  peasants  superin- 
tending "  A  AVhiskey  Still,"  in  the  middle  room.  No.  252. 

This  picture,  I  say,  any  one  may  see  and  admire  who 
pleases  :  to  me  it  seems  all  rags,  and  duds,  and  a  strange, 
straggling,  misty  composition.  There  are  fine  things,  of 
course ;  for  how  can  Sir  David  help  painting  fine  things  ? 
In  the  "Benvenuto  "  there  is  superb  color,  with  a  rich  man- 
agement of  lakes  especially,  which  has  been  borrowed  from 
no  master  that  we  know  of.  The  Queen  is  as  bad  a  like- 
ness and  picture  as  we  have  seen  for  many  a  day.  "Mrs. 
Ferguson,  of  Raith,"  a  magnificent  picture  indeed,  as  grand 
in  effect  as  a  Rubens  or  Titian,  and  having  a  style  of  its 
own.  The  little  sketch  from  Allan  Ramsay  is  delightful  ; 
and  the  nobleman  and  hounds  (with  the  exception  of  his 
own  clumsy  vermilion  robe),  as  fine  as  the  fellow-sized 
portrait   mentioned  before.      Allan  Ramsay  has   given  a 


A   PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  157 

pretty  subject,  and  brought  us  a  pretty  picture  from  another 
painter,  ^Ir.  A.  Johnston,  who  has  illustrated  those  pleasant 
quaint  lines, — 

"Last  morning  I  was  £:ay,  and  early  out  ; 
Upon  a  (like  I  leaned,  glow'ring  about. 
I  saw  my  Meg  come  linkau  o'er  the  lea  ; 
I  saw  my  Meg,  but  Meggy  saw  na  me." 

And  here  let  us  mention  with  praise  two  small  pictures 
in  a  style  somewhat  similar  —  "  The  Recruit,''  and  "  Her- 
mann and  Dorothea,"  by  Mr.  Poole.  The  former  of  these 
little  pieces  is  very  touching  and  beautiful.  There  is 
among  the  present  exhibitioners  no  lack  of  this  kind  of 
talent ;  and  we  could  point  out  many  pictures  that  are 
equally  remarkable  for  grace  and  agreeable  feeling.  Mr. 
Stone's  "  Annot  Lyle "  should  not  be  passed  over,  —  a 
pretty  picture,  very  well  painted,  the  female  head  of  great 
beauty  and  expression. 

Now,  if  we  want  to  praise  performances  showing  a  great 
deal  of  power  and  vigor,  rather  than  grace  and  delicacy, 
there  are  Mr.  Etty's  "  Andromeda  "  and  "  Venus."  In  the 
former,  the  dim  figure  of  advancing  Perseus  galloping  on 
his  airy  charger  is  very  fine  and  ghostly ;  in  the  latter,  the 
body  of  the  Venus,  and  indeed  the  whole  picture,  is  a  per- 
fect miracle  of  color.  Titian  may  have  painted  Italian  flesh 
equally  well ;  but  he  never,  I  think,  could  surpass  the  skill 
of  ]\Ir.  Etty.  The  trunk  of  this  voluptuous  Venus  is  the 
most  astonishing  representation  of  beautiful  English  flesh 
and  blood,  painted  in  the  grandest  and  broadest  style.  It 
is  said  that  the  Academy  at  Edinburgh  has  a  room  full  of 
Etty's  pictures  ;  they  could  not  do  better  in  England  than 
follow  the  example  ;  but  perhaps  the  paintings  had  better 
be  kept /or  Me  Academy/  only  —  for  the  j^rofanum  vulgiis 
are  scarcely  fitted  to  comprehend  their  peculiar  beauties. 
A  prettily  drawn,  graceful,  nude  figure  is  "  Bathsheba,"  by 
Mr.  Fisher,  of  the  street  and  city  of  Cork. 

The  other  great  man  of  Cork  is  Daniel  ]\Iaclise  by  name ; 
and  if  in  the  riot  of  fancy  he  hath  by  playful  Titmarsh 
been  raised  to  the  honor  of  knighthood,  it  is  certain  that 
here  Titmarsh  is  a  true  prophet,  and  that  the  sovereign 
will  so  elevate  him,  one  day  or  other,  to  sit  with  other 
cavaliers  at  the  Academic  round  table.  As  for  his  pic- 
tures, —  why,  as  for  his  pictures,  madam,  these  are  to  be 
carefully  reviewed  in  the  next  number  of  this  Magazine  ; 


158     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AJVB  ART. 

for  the  present  notice  lias  noticed  scarcely  anybody,  and 
yet  stretched  to  an  inordinate  length.  "Macbeth"  is  not  to 
be  hurried  off  under  six  pages ;  and  for  this  June  number, 
INIr.  Fraser  vows  that  he  has  no  such  room  to  spare. 

We  have  said  how  Mr.  Turner's  pictures  blaze  about  the 
rooms ;  it  is  not  a  little  curious  to  hear  how  artists  and  the 
public  differ  in  tlieir  judgment  concerning  them ;  the  en- 
thusiastic wonder  of  the  first-named,  the  blank  surprise 
and  incredulity  of  the  latter.  "The  new  moon;  or,  I've 
lost  my  boat :  you  sha'n't  have  your  hoop,"  is  the  ingenious 
title  of  one,  —  a  very  beautiful  picture,  too,  of  a  long  shin- 
ing sea-sand,  lighted  from  the  upper  part  of  the  canvas  by 
the  above-named  luminary  of  night,  and  from  the  left-hand 
corner  by  a  wonderful  wary  boy  in  a  red  jacket  —  the  best 
painted  figure  that  we  ever  knew  painted  by  Joseph  Mal- 
lord  Turner,  Esquire. 

He  and  Mr.  Ward  vie  with  each  other  in  mottoes  for 

their  pictures.     Ward's  epigraph  to  the    S 's  nest   is 

wondrous  poetic. 

277.  The  S 's  Nest.     S.  Ward,  E.A. 

"  Say  they  that  happiness  lives  with  the  great, 
On  gorgeous  trappings  mixt  with  pomp  and  state  ? 
More  frequent  found  upon  tlie  simple  plain, 
In  poorest  garb,  with  Julia,  Jess,  or  Jane  ; 
In  sport  or  slumber,  as  it  likes  her  best. 
Where'er  she  lays  she  finds  it  a  S 's  nest." 

Ay,  and  a  S 's  eggs,  too,  as  one  would  fancy,  were 

great  geniuses  not  above  grammar.     Mark  the  line,  too, 

'*  On  gorgeous  trappings  mixt  with  pomp  and  state," 

and  construe  the  whole  of  this  sensible  passage. 

Not  less  sublime  is  Mr.  Ward's  fellow- Academician :  — 
230.  "  Slavers  throAving  overboard  the  Dead  and  Dying  : 

Typhoon  coming  on."     J.  M.  W.  Turner,  R.A. 

"  Aloft  all  hands,  strike  the  topmasts  and  belay  ! 
Yon  angry  setting  sun  and  fierce-edged  clouds 
Declare  the  Typhoon's  coming. 
Before  it  sweeps  your  decks,  throw  overboard 
The  dead  and  dying  —  ne'er  heed  their  chains. 
Hope,  Hope,  fallacious  Hope  ! 
Where  is  thy  market  now  ?" 

MS.  Fallacies  of  Hope. 


A   PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  loll 

Fallacies  of  Hope,  indeed:  to  a  pretty  mart  lias  she 
brought  her  pigs  !  How  should  Hope  be  hooked  on  to  the 
slaver  ?  By  the  anchor,  to  be  sure,  which  accounts  for  it. 
As  for  the  picture,  the  R.A.'s  rays  are  indeed  terrific ;  and 
the  slaver  throwing  its  cargo  overboard  is  the  most  tre- 
mendous piece  of  color  that  ever  was  seen ;  it  sets  the 
corn^^^  of  the  room  in  which  it  hangs  into  a  flame.  Is  the 
picture  sublime  or  ridiculous  ?  Indeed  I  don't  know  wliich. 
Rocks  of  gamboge  are  marked  down  upon  the  canvas  ; 
flakes  of  white  laid  on  with  a  trowel ;  bladders  of  vermilion 
madly  spirted  here  and  there.  Yonder  is  the  slaver  rock- 
ing in  the  midst  of  a  flashing  foam  of  white  lead.  The  sun 
glares  down  upon  a  horrible  sea  of  emerald  and  puri)le, 
into  which  chocolate-colored  slaves  are  plunged,  and  chains 
that  will  not  sink  5  and  round  these  are  floundering  such  a 
race  of  fishes  as  never  was  seen  since  the  sa'culum  Pi/rrhw ; 
gasping  dolphins,  redder  than  the  reddest  herrings;  horrid 
spreading  polypi,  like  huge,  slimy,  poached  eggs,  in  which 
hapless  niggers  ])lunge  and  disappear.  Ye  gods,  what  a 
'•'  middle  passage  "  !  How  Mr.  Fowell  Buxton  must  shud- 
der !  What  would  they  say  to  this  in  Exeter  Hall?  If 
Wilberforce's  statue  downstairs  were  to  be  confronted  with 
this  picture,  the  stony  old  gentleman  would  spring  off  his 
chair,  and  fly  away  in  terror ! 

And  here,  as  we  are  speaking  of  the  slave-trade,  let  us 
say  a  word  in  welcome  to  a  French  artist,  IMonsieur  Biard, 
and  liis  admirable  picture.  Let  the  friends  of  the  negro 
fortliwith  buy  this  canvas,  and  cause  a  plate  to  be  taken 
from  it.  It  is  the  best,  most  striking,  most  pathetic  lec- 
ture against  the  trade  that  ever  was  delivered.  The  picture 
is  as  fine  as  Hogarth ;  and  the  artist,  who,  as  we  have 
heard,  right  or  wrong,  has  only  of  late  years  adopted  the 
profession  of  painting,  and  was  formerly  in  the  French 
navy,  has  evidently  drawn  a  great  deal  of  his  materials 
from  life  and  personal  observation.  The  scene  is  laid  upon 
the  African  coast.  King  Tom  or  King  Boy  has  come  with 
troops  of  slaves  down  the  Quorra,  and  sits  in  the  midst  of 
his  chiefs  and  mistresses  (one  a  fair  creature,  not  mucli 
darker  than  a  copper  tea-kettle)  bargaining  with  a  French 
dealer.  What  a  horrible  callous  brutality  there  is  in  the 
scoundrel's  face,  as  he  lolls  over  his  greasy  ledger,  and 
makes  his  calculations.  A  number  of  his  crew  are  about 
him  ;  their  boats  close  at  hand,  in  which  they  are  stowing 
their  cargo.     See  the  poor  wretches,  men  and  women,  col- 


160     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

lared  together,  drooping  down.  There  is  one  poor  thing 
just  parted  from  her  child.  On  the  ground  in  front  lies  a 
stalwart  negro ;  one  connoisseur  is  handling  his  chest,  to 
try  his  wind ;  another  has  opened  his  mouth,  and  examines 
his  teeth,  to  know  his  age  and  soundness.  Yonder  is  a 
poor  woman  kneeling  before  one  of  the  Frenchmen;  her 
shoulder  is  fizzing  under  the  hot  iron  with  which  he  brands 
her  ;  she  is  looking  up,  shuddering  and  wild,  yet  quite  mild 
and  patient :  it  breaks  your  heart  to  look  at  her.  I  never 
saw  anything  so  exquisitely  pathetic  as  that  face.  God 
bless  you,  Monsieur  Biard,  for  painting  it !  It  stirs  the 
heart  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  tracts,  reports,  or  ser- 
mons :  it  must  convert  every  man  who  has  seen  it.  You 
British  Government,  who  have  given  twenty  millions 
toward  the  good  end  of  freeing  this  hapless  people,  give 
yet  a  couple  of  thousand  more  to  the  French  painter,  and 
don't  let  his  work  go  out  of  the  country,  now  that  it  is 
here.  Let  it  hang  along  with  the  Hogarths  in  the  National 
Gallery ;  it  is  as  good  as  the  best  of  them.  Or,  there  is 
Mr.  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  who  has  a  family  inter- 
est in  the  matter,  and  does  not  know  how  to  sjDend  all  the 
money  he  brought  home  from  India ;  let  the  right  honor- 
able gentleman  look  to  it.  Down  with  your  dust,  right 
honorable  sir ;  give  Monsieur  Biard  a  couple  of  thousand 
for  his  picture  of  the  negroes,  and  it  will  be  the  best  black 
act  you  ever  did  in  your  life ;  and  don't  go  for  to  be  angry 
at  the  suggestion,  or  fanc}^  we  are  taking  liberties.  What 
is  said  is  said  from  one  public  man  to  another,  in  a  Pick- 
wickian sense,  de  puissa7ice  en  puissance,  —  from  Titmarsh, 
in  his  critical  cathedra,  to  your  father's  eminent  son,  rich 
with  the  spoils  of  Ind,  and  wielding  the  bolts  of  war. 

What  a  marvellous  power  is  this  of  the  painter's  !  how 
each  great  man  can  excite  us  at  his  will !  what  a  weapon 
he  has,  if  he  knows  how  to  wield  it !  Look  for  a  while  at 
Mr.  Etty's  pictures  and  away  you  rush,  your  "eyes  on  fire," 
drunken  with  the  luscious  colors  that  are  poured  out  for 
you  on  the  liberal  canvas,  and  w^arm  with  the  sight  of  the 
beautiful  sirens  that  appear  on  it.  You  fly  from  this  (and 
full  time,  too)  and  plunge  into  a  green  shady  landscape  of 
Lee  or  Ores  wick,  and  follow  a  quiet  stream  babbling  be- 
neath whispering  trees,  and  checkered  with  cool  shade  and 
golden  sunshine  ;  or  you  set  the  world  —  nay,  the  Thames 
and  the  ocean  —  on  fire  with  that  incendiary  Turner;  or 
you   laugh   with   honest   kind-hearted   Webster,   and    his 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  161 

troops  of  merry  children  ;  or  you  fall  a-weeping  with  Mon- 
sieur Biard  for  his  poor  blacks ;  or  you  go  and  consult  the 
priests  of  the  place,  Eastlake,  Mulready,  Boxall.  Cope,  and 
the  like,  and  straightway  your  mind  is  carried  off  in  an 
ecstasy,  —  happy  thrilling  hymns  sound  in  your  ears  me- 
lodious,—  sweet  thankfulness  fills  your  bosom.  How  much 
instruction  and  happiness  have  we  gained  from  these  men, 
and  how  grateful  should  we  be  to  them ! 

[It  is  well  that  Mr.  Titmarsh  stopped  here,  and  I  shall 
take  special  care  to  examine  any  further  remarks  which  he 
may  think  fit  to  send.  Four-fifths  of  this  would  have  been 
cancelled,  had  the  printed  sheets  fallen  sooner  into  our 
hands.  The  story  about  the  ''Clarendon"  is  an  absurd 
fiction;  no  dinner  ever  took  place  there.  I  never  fell 
asleep  in  a  plate  of  raspberry  ice ;  and  though  I  certainly 
did  recommend  this  person  to  do  justice  by  the  painters, 
making  him  a  speech  to  that  effect,  my  opinions  were  in- 
finitely better  expressed,  and  I  would  repeat  them  were  it 
not  so  late  in  the  month.  —  0.  Y.] 


162     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


II. 

A   PICTORIAL   EH APSODY.— Concluded. 

AND    FOLLOWED    BY    A    REMARKABLE    STATEMENT    OF    FACTS 
BY    MRS.    BARBARA. 

{Eraser's  Magazine,  July,  1840.] 

And  now,  in  pursuance  of  the  promise  recorded  in  the 
last  number  of  this  Magazine,  and  for  the  performance  of 
which  the  public  has  ever  since  been  in  breathless  expecta- 
tion, it  hath  become  Titmarsh's  duty  to  note  down  his  opin- 
ions of  the  remaining  pictures  in  the  Academy  exhibition ; 
and  to  criticise  such  other  pieces  as  the  other  galleries  may 
show. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  with  regard  to  Mr.  Maclise,  it 
becomes  us  to  say  our  say  :  and  as  the  Observer  newspaper, 
which,  though  under  the  express  patronage  of  the  royal 
family,  devotes  by  far  the  noblest  part  of  its  eloquence  to 
the  consideration  of  dramatic  subjects,  and  to  the  discussion 
of  the  gains,  losses,  and  theatrical  conduct  of  managers, — 
as,  I  say,  the  Observer  newspaper,  whenever  Madame  Ves- 
tris  or  Mr.  Yates  adopts  any  plan  that  concurs  with  the  no- 
tions of  the  paper  in  question,  does  not  fail  to  say  that 
Madame  Vestris  or  Mr.  Yates  has  been  induced  so  to  re- 
form in  consequence  of  the  Observer's  particular  suggestion; 
in  like  manner,  Titmarsh  is  fully  convinced  that  all  the 
painters  in  this  town  have  their  eyes  incessantly  fixed 
upon  his  criticisms,  and  that  all  the  wise  ones  regulate 
their  opinions  by  his. 

In  the  language  of  the  Observer,  then,  Mr.  Maclise  has 
done  wisely  to  adopt  our  suggestions  with  regard  to  the 
moral  treatment  of  his  pictures,  and  has  made  a  great 
advance  in  his  art.  Of  his  four  pictures,  let  us  dismiss 
the  scene  from  "  Gil  Bias  "  at  once.  Coming  from  a  sec- 
ond-rate man,  it  would  be  well  enough ;  it  is  well  drawn, 
grouped,  lighted,  shadowed,  and  the  people  all  grin  very 
comically,  as  people  do  in  pictures  called  comic ;  but  the 
soul  of  fun  is  wanting,  as  I  take  it,  —  the  merry,  brisk, 


.1   PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY,  163 

good-humored  spirit  which  in  Le  Sage's  text  so  charms 
the  reader. 

"  Olivia  and  Malvolio  "'  is,  on  the  contrary,  one  of  the  best 
and  most  spiritual  performances  of  the  artist.  Nothing 
can  be  more  elegant  than  the  tender  languid  melancholy 
of  Olivia,  nor  more  poetical  than  the  general  treatment  of 
the  picture.  The  long  clipped  alleys  and  quaint  gardens, 
the  peacocks  trailing  through  the  walks,  and  vases  basking 
in  the  sun,  are  finely  painted  and  conceived.  Examine  the 
picture  at  a  little  distance,  and  the  ensemble  of  the  compo- 
sition and  color  is  extraordinarily  pleasing.  The  details, 
too,  are,  as  usual,  wonderful  for  their  accuracy.  Here  are 
flower-beds,  and  a  tree  above  Olivia's  head,  of  which  every 
leaf  is  painted,  and  painted  witli  such  skill  as  not  in  the 
least  to  injure  the  general  effect  of  the  picture.  Mr.  Mac- 
lise  has  a  daguerreotypic  eye,  and  a  feeling  of  form  stronger, 
I  do  believe,  than  has  ever  been  possessed  by  any  painter 
before  him. 

Look  at  the  portrait  of  ^Nlr.  Dickens,  —  well  arranged  as  a 
picture,  good  in  color,  and  light,  and  shadow,  and  as  a  like- 
ness perfectly  amazing;  a  looking-glass  could  not  render  a 
better  fac-simile.  Here  we  have  the  real  identical  man 
Dickens :  the  artist  must  have  understood  the  inward  Boz 
as  well  as  the  outward  before  he  made  this  admirable  rep- 
resentation of  him.  What  cheerful  intelligence  there  is 
about  the  man's  eyes  and  large  forehead !  The  mouth  is 
too  large  and  full,  too  eager  and  active,  perhaps ;  the  smile 
is  very  sweet  and  generous.  If  Monsieur  de  Balzac,  that 
voluminous  physiognomist,  could  examine  this  head,  he 
would,  no  doubt,  interpret  everj'"  tone  and  wrinkle  in  it : 
the  nose  firm,  and  well  placed ;  the  nostrils  wide  and  full, 
as  are  the  nostrils  of  all  men  of  genius  (this  is  Monsieur 
Balzac's  maxim).  The  past  and  the  future,  says  Jean 
Paul,  are  written  in  every  countenance.  I  think  we  may 
promise  ourselves  a  brilliant  future  from  this  one.  There 
seems  no  flagging  as  yet  in  it,  no  sense  of  fatigue,  or  con- 
sciousness of  decaying  power.  Long  mayest  thou,  0  Boz  ! 
reign  over  thy  comic  kingdom ;  long  may  we  pay  tribute, 
whether  of  threepence  weekly  or  of  a  shilling  monthly, 
it  matters  not.  ]Mighty  prince !  at  thy  imperial  feet,  Tit- 
marsh,  humblest  of  thy  servants,  offers  his  vows  of  loy- 
alty, and  his  humble  tribute  of  praise. 

And  now  (as  soon  as  we  are  off  our  knees,  and  have  done 
paying  court  to  sovereign  Boz)  it  behooves  us  to  say  a  word 


164     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART, 

or  two  concerning  the  picture  of  "  Macbeth,"  which  occupies 
such  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  Academy  gallery.  WelL 
then,  this  picture  of  "Macbeth"  has  been,  to  our  notion,  a 
great  deal  too  much  praised  and  abused;  only  Titmarsh 
understands  the  golden  mean,  as  is  acknowledged  by  all 
who  read  his  criticisms.  Here  is  a  very  fine  masterly  pic- 
ture, no  doubt,  full  of  beauties,  and  showing  extraordinary 
power;  but  not  a  masterpiece,  as  I  humbly  take  it, — not  a 
picture  to  move  the  beholder  as  much  as  many  performances 
that  do  not  disjilay  half  the  power  that  is  here  exhibited. 
I  don't  pretend  to  lay  down  any  absolute  laws  on  the  sub- 
lime (the  reader  will  remember  how  the  ancient  satirist 
hath  accused  John  Dennis  of  madness,  for  his  vehement 
preaching  of  such  rules).  No,  no ;  Michael  Angelo  T.  is 
not  quite  so  impertinent  as  that ;  but  the  public  and  the 
artist  will  not  mind  being  told,  without  any  previous  defi- 
nitions, that  this  picture  is  not  of  the  highest  order :  the 
"  Malvolio  "  is  far  more  spiritual  and  suggestive,  if  we  may 
so  speak ;  it  tells  not  only  its  own  tale  very  charmingly, 
but  creates  for  the  beholder  a  very  pleasant  melancholy 
train  of  thought,  as  every  good  picture  does  in  its  kind, 
from  a  six-inch  canvas  by  Hobbema  or  Ruysdael  up  to  a 
thousand-foot  wall  of  Michael  Angelo.  If  you  read  over 
the  banquet-scene  in  words,  it  leaves  an  impression  far 
more  dreadful  and  lively.  On  the  stage,  it  has  always 
seemed  to  us  to  fail ;  and  though  out  of  a  trap-door  in 
the  middle  of  it  Mr.  Cooper  is  seen  to  rise  very  solemnly, 
—  his  face  covered  w4th  white,  and  a  dreadful  gash  of  ver- 
milion across  his  neck ;  though  he  nods  and  waggles  his 
head  about  in  a  very  quiet  ghostlike  manner ;  yet,  strange 
to  say,  neither  this  scene,  nor  this  great  actor,  has  ever 
frightened  us,  as  they  both  should,  as  the  former  does 
when  we  read  it  at  home.  The  fact  is,  that  it  is  quite  out 
of  Mr.  Cooper's  power  to  look  ghostly  enough,  or,  perhaps, 
to  soar  along  with  us  to  that  sublime  height  to  which  our 
imagination  is  continually  carrying  us. 

A  large  part  of  this  vast  picture  Mr.  Maclise  has  painted 
very  finely.  The  lords  are  all  there  in  gloomy  state,  fierce 
stalwart  men  in  steel ;  the  variety  of  attitude  and  light  in 
which  the  different  groups  are  placed,  the  wonderful  knowl- 
edge and  firmness  with  which  each  individual  figure  and 
feature  are  placed  down  upon  the  canvas  will  be  under- 
stood and  admired  by  the  public,  but  by  the  artist  still 
more,  who   knows   the   difficulty  of   these   things,  which 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  1G5 

seem  so  easy,  which  are  so  easy,  no  doubt,  to  a  man 
with  Mr.  Maclise's  extraordinary  gifts.  How  fine  is  yon- 
der group  at  the  farthest  table,  lighted  up  by  the  reflected 
light  from  the  armor  of  one  of  them  !  The  effect,  as  far  as 
we  know,  is  entirely  new;  the  figures  drawn  with  exqui- 
site minuteness  and  clearness,  not  in  the  least  interrupting 
the  general  harmony  of  the  picture.  Look  at  the  two 
women  standing  near  Lady  ^lacbeth's  throne,  and  those 
beautiful  little  hands  of  one  of  them  placed  over  the  state- 
chair  :  the  science,  workmanship,  feeling  in  these  figures 
are  alike  wonderful.  The  face,  bust,  and  attitude  of  Lady 
^Macbeth  are  grandly  designed;  the  figures  to  her  right, 
with  looks  of  stern  doubt  and  wonder,  are  nobly  designed 
and  arranged.  The  main  figure  of  INIacbeth,  I  confess,  does 
not  please ;  nor  the  object  which  has  occasioned  the  fright- 
ful convulsive  attitude  in  which  he  stands.  He  sees  not 
the  ghost  of  Banquo,  but  a  huge,  indistinct,  gory  shadow, 
which  seems  to  shake  its  bloody  locks,  and  frown  upon  him. 
Through  this  shade,  intercepted  only  by  its  lurid  transpar- 
ency, you  see  the  figures  of  the  guests ;  they  are  looking 
towards  it,  and  fhrour/h  it.  The  skill  with  which  this  point 
is  made  is  unquestionable ;  there  is  something  there,  and 
nothing.  The  spectators  feel  this  as  well  as  the  painted 
actors  of  the  scene;  there  are  times  when,  in  looking  at  the 
picture,  one  loses  sight  of  the  shade  altogether,  and  begins 
to  wonder  with  Rosse,  Lenox,  and  the  rest. 

The  idea,  then,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  as  excellently  worked 
out  as  it  is  daringly  conceived.  But  is  it  a  just  one  ?  I 
think  not.  I  should  say  it  was  a  grim  piece  of  comedy 
rather  than  tragedy.  One  is  puzzled  by  this  piece  of  dia- 
blerie,—  not  deeply  affected  and  awe-stricken,  as  in  the  midst 
of  such  heroical  characters  and  circumstances  one  should  be. 

"  Avannt.  and  quit  my  sidit !    Let  the  earth  hide  thee! 
Thy  hoiie'^  aie  marrow  less  —  thy  blood  is  cold; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
"Which  thou  dost  glare  with." 

Before  the  poet's  eyes,  at  least,  the  figure  of  the  ghost 
stood  complete — an  actual  visible  body,  with  the  life  gone 
out  of  it ;  an  image  far  more  grand  and  dreadful  than  the 
painter's  fantastical  shadow,  because  more  simple.  The 
shadow  is  an  aw^ful  object,  —  granted;  but  the  most  sub- 
lime, beautiful,  fearful  sight  in  all  nature  is,  surely,  the 
face  of  a  man ;  wonderful  in  all  its  expressions  of  grief  or 


166     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

joy,  daring  or  endurance,  thought,  hope,  love,  or  pain.  How 
Shakespeare  painted  all  these ;  with  what  careful  thought 
and  brooding  were  all  his  imaginary  creatures  made ! 

I  believe  we  have  mentioned  the  best  figure-pieces  in  the 
exhibition ;  for,  alas  !  the  "  Milton  and  his  Daughters  "  of 
Sir  Augustus  Callcott,  although  one  of  the  biggest  canvases 
in  the  gallery,  is  by  no  means  one  of  the  best ;  and  one  may 
regret  that  this  most  splrltuel  of  landscape-painters  should 
have  forsaken  his  old  style  to  follow  hgure-drawing.  j\Ir. 
Hollins  has  a  picture  of  "  Benvenuto  Cellini  showing  a  Trin- 
ket to  a  Lady."  A  subject  of  absorbing  interest  and  pas- 
sionate excitement,  painted  in  a  corresponding  manner.  A 
prim  lady  sits  smiling  in  a  chair,  by  a  table,  on  which  is  a 
very  neat  regular  tablecloth,  drawn  at  right  angles  with  the 
picture-frame  ;  parallel  with  the  table  is  a  chest  of  drawers, 
secretaire,  cabinet,  or  bahut.  Near  this  stands  a  waiting- 
maid,  smiling  archly ;  and  in  front  you  behold  young  Ben- 
venuto, spick  and  span  in  his  very  best  clothes  and  silk 
stockings,  looking  —  as  Benvenuto  never  did  in  his  life. 
Of  some  parts  of  this  picture,  the  color  and  workmanship 
are  very  pretty ;  but  was  there  ever  such  a  niminypiminy 
subject  treated  in  such  a  niminypiminy  way  ?  We  can 
remember  this  gentleman's  picture  of  "Margaret  at  the 
Spinning-wheel "  last  year,  and  should  be  glad  to  see  and 
laud  others  that  were  equally  pretty.  Mr.  Lauder  has,  in 
the  same  room,  a  pleasing  picture  from  Walter  Scott,  ''The 
Glee-Maiden ; "  and  a  large  sketch,  likewise  from  Scott,  by 
a  French  artist  (who  has  been  celebrated  in  this  Magazine 
as  the  author  of  the  picture  "  The  Sinking  of  the  '  Ven- 
geur' "),  is  fine  in  effect  and  composition. 

If  Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  Travellers  taking  Kefresh- 
ment  at  a  Convent  Gate  "  has  not  produced  much  sensa^ 
tion,  it  is  because  it  is  feeble  in  tone,  not  very  striking  in 
subject,  and  placed  somewhat  too  high.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  beauty  and  delicacy  in  all  the  figures ;  and  though 
lost  here,  amidst  the  glare  and  bustle  of  the  Academy,  it 
will  be  an  excellent  picture  for  the  cabinet,  where  its  quiet 
graces  and  merits  will  be  better  seen. 

Mr.  Webster's  "Punch,"  before  alluded  to,  deserves  a 
great  deal  of  praise.  The  landscape  is  beautiful,  the  group 
of  little  figures  assembled  to  view  the  show  are  delight- 
fully gay  and  pretty.  Mr.  Webster  has  the  bump  of  philo- 
progenitiveness  (as  some  ninny  says  of  George  Cruikshank 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  167 

in  the  Westminster  Revieii^  ;  and  all  mothers  of  large 
families,  young  ladies  who  hope  to  be  so  one  day  or  the 
other,  and  honest  papas,  are  observed  to  examine  this  pic- 
ture with  much  smiling  interest.  It  is  full  of  sunshine 
and  innocent  playful  good-humor ;  all  Punch's  audience  are 
on  the  grin.  John,  the  squire's  footman,  is  looking  on  with 
a  protecting  air ;  the  old  village  folk  are  looking  on,  grin- 
ning with  tiie  very  youngest;  boys  are  scampering  over  the 
common,  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  the  show  ;  Punchman  is 
tootooing  on  the  pipes,  and  banging  away  on  the  drum  ; 
potboy  has  consigned  to  the  earth  his  precious  cargo,  and 
the  head  of  every  tankard  of  liquor  is  wasting  its  frothy 
fragrance  in  the  air;  in  like  manner  the  pieman  permits 
his  wares  to  get  cold ;  nurserymaids,  schoolboys,  happy 
children  in  go-carts,  are  employed  in  a  similar  way  :  indeed, 
a  delightful  little  rustic  comedy. 

In  respect  of  portraits,  the  prettiest,  as  I  fancy,  after 
Wilkie's  splendid  picture  of  ^Mrs.  Ferguson,  is  one  by  ^Nlr. 
Grant,  of  a  lady  with  a  scarf  of  a  greenish  color.  The 
whole  picture  is  of  the  same  tone,  and  beautifully  harmoni- 
ous ;  nor  are  the  lady's  face  and  air  the  least  elegant  and 
charming  part  of  it.  The  Duke  has  been  painted  a  vast 
number  of  times,  such  are  the  penalties  of  glory  ;  nor  is  it 
possible  to  conceive  anything  much  worse  than  that  por- 
trait of  him  in  whicli  Colonel  Gurwood  is  represented  by 
his  side,  in  a  red  velvet  waistcoat,  offering  to  his  Grace 
certain  despatches.  It  is  in  the  style  of  the  famous 
picture  in  the  Regent  Circus,  representing  jNIr.  Coleby  the 
cigarist,  an  orange,  a  pineapple,  a  champagne-cork,  a  little 
dog,  some  decanters,  and  a  yellow  bandanna,  —  all  which 
personages  appear  to  be  so  excessively  important  that  the 
puzzled  eyes  scarcely  know  upon  which  to  settle.  In  like 
manner,  in  the  Wellington-Gurwood  testimonial,  the  acces- 
sories are  so  numerous,  and  so  brilliantly  colored,  that  it  is 
long  before  one  can  look  up  to  the  countenances  of  the 
Colonel  and  his  Grace ;  which,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  are  the 
main  objects  of  interest  in  the  piece.  And  this  plan  has 
been  not  unartfull}-  contrived,  —  for  the  heads  are  by  no 
means  painted  up  to  the  point  of  brilliancy  which  is  visible 
in  boots,  clocks,  bell-pulls,  Turkey  carpets,  arm-chairs,  and 
other  properties  here  painted. 

Now,  if  the  artist  of  the  above  picture  wishes  to  know 
how  properties  may  be  painted  with  all  due  minuteness,  and 
yet  conduce  to  the  general  effect  of  the  picture,  let  him 


168      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

examine  the  noble  little  j^ortrait  of  Lord  Cottenham,  by 
Leslie,  —  the  only  contribution  of  this  great  man  to  the 
exhibition.  Here  are  a  number  of  accessories  introduced, 
but  with  that  forethouglit  and  sense  of-  propriet}-  which,  as 
I  fancy,  distinguish  all  the  works  of  Mr.  Leslie.  They  are 
not  here  for  mere  picturesque  effect  or  ornamental  huddle  ; 
but  are  made  to  tell  the  story  of  the  piece,  and  indicate  the 
character  of  the  dignified  personage  who  fills  the  centre  of 
it.  The  black  brocade  drapery  of  the  Chancellor's  gown  is 
accurately  painted,  and  falls  in  that  majestic  grave  way  in 
which  a  chancellor's  robe  should  fall.  Are  not  the  learned 
lord's  arms  somewhat  short  and  fin-like  ?  This  is  a  query 
which  we  put  humbly,  having  never  had  occasion  to  remark 
that  part  of  his  person. 

Mr.  Briggs  has  his  usual  pleasant  well-painted  portraits  ; 
and  Mr.  Patten  a  long  full-length  of  Prince  Albert  that  is 
not  admired  by  artists,  it  is  said,  but  a  good  downright 
honest  bourgeois  picture,  as  we  fancy ;  or,  as  a  facetious 
friend  remarked,  good  plain  roast-and-boiled  painting.  As 
for  the  portrait  opposite — that  of  her  Majesty,  it  is  a  sheer 
libel  upon  that  pretty  gracious  countenance,  an  act  of 
rebellion  for  which  Sir  David  should  be  put  into  York  jail. 
Parts  of  the  picture  are,  however,  splendidly  painted.  And 
here,  being  upon  the  subject,  let  us  say  a  word  in  praise 
of  those  two  delightful  lithographic  heads,  after  Eoss, 
which  appear  in  the  printshop  windows.  Our  gracious 
Queen's  head  is  here  most  charming ;  and  that  of  the  Prince 
full  of  such  manly  frankness  and  benevolence  as  must  make 
all  men  cry  "God  bless  him."  I  would  much  sooner 
possess  a  copy  of  the  Poss  miniature  of  the  Queen,  than  a 
cast  from  her  Majesty's  bust  by  Sir  Francis  Chantrey,  which 
has  the  place  of  honor  in  the  sculpture  vault. 

All  Macdonali's  busts  deserve  honorable  notice.  This 
lucky  sculptor  has  some  beautiful  subjects  to  model,  and 
beautiful  and  graceful  all  his  marbles  are.  As  much  may 
be  said  of  Mr.  M'Dowell's  girl, — the  only  piece  of  ima- 
ginative sculpture  in  the  Academy  that  has  struck  us  as 
pleasing.  Mr.  Behnes,  too,  should  receive  many  commen- 
dations ;  an  old  man's  head  particularly,  that  is  full  of 
character  and  goodness  ;  and  "  The  Bust  of  a  Lady,"  which 
may  be  called  "A  Lady  with  a  Bust,"  —  a  beautiful  bust, 
indeed,  of  which  the  original  and  the  artist  have  both  good 
right  to  be  proud.  Mr.  Bell's  virgin  is  not  so  pleasing  in 
the  full  size  as  m  the  miniature  copy  of  it. 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  1(39 

For  the  matter  of  landscapes,  we  confess  ourselves  to  be 
no  very  ardent  admirers  of  these  performances,  clever  and 
dexterous  as  most  of  them  are.  The  works  of  ^Ir.  Staniield 
and  Mr.  Roberts  cannot  fail  to  be  skilful ;  and  both  of  these 
famous  artists  show  their  wonderful  power  of  drawing,  as 
usual.  But  these  skilful  pictures  have  always  appeared  to 
us  more  pleasing  in  little  on  the  sketching-board  than  when 
expanded  upon  the  canvas.  A  couple  of  Martin's  must  be 
mentioned,  —  huge,  queer,  and  tawdry  to  our  eyes,  but  very 
much  admired  by  the  public,  who  is  no  bad  connoisseur, 
after  all ;  and  also  a  tine  Castle  of  Chillon,  or  Chalou, 
rudely  painted,  but  very  poetical  and  impressive. 

[Here  Titinarsli  exchanges  bis  check  at  the  door  for  a  valuable  ging- 
ham umbrella,  with  a  yellow  horn-head,  representing  Lord  Broug- 
ham or  Doctor  Syntax,  and  is  soon  seen,  with  his  hat  very  much 
on  one  side,  swaggering  down  Pall  Mall  East,  to  the  Water-Color 
Galleiy.  He  flings  doVn  eigbteenpence  in  the  easiest  way,  and 
goes  upstairs.] 

Accident,  or  what  is  worse,  ill  health,  has  deprived  us  of 
the  two  most  skilful  professors  of  the  noble  art  of  water- 
color  painting;  and,  without  the  works  of  ^lessrs.  Lewis 
and  Cattermole,  the  gallery  looks  empty  indeed.  Those 
gentlemen  are  accustomed  to  supply  the  picture-lover  with 
the  pih'es  de  resistance  of  the  feast,  with  wliich,  being  de- 
cently satisfied,  we  can  trifle  witli  an  old  market-place  by 
Front,  or  six  cows  and  four  pigs  by  Hill,  or  a  misty  Downs 
by  Copley  Fielding,  with  some  degree  of  pleasure.  Dis- 
contented, then,  with  the  absence  of  the  substantials,  it 
must  be  confessed  that  we  have  been  examining  the  rest  of 
the  pictures  in  no  very  good  humor.  And  so,  to  tell  you  a 
secret,  I  do  not  care  a  tig  for  all  the  old  town-halls  in  the 
world,  though  they  be  drawn  never  so  skilfully.  How  long 
are  we  to  go  on  with  Venice,  Verona,  Lago  di  Soandso,  and 
Ponte  di  What-d'ye-call-'em  ?  I  am  weary  of  gondolas, 
striped  awnings,  sailors  with  red  night  (or  rather  day)  caps, 
cobalt  distances,  and  posts  in  the  water.  I  have  seen  so 
many  white  palaces  standing  before  dark  purple  skies,  so 
many  black  towers  with  gamboge  atmospheres  behind  them, 
so  many  masses  of  rifle-green  trees  plunged  into  the  deepest 
shadow,  in  the  midst  of  sunshiny  plains,  for  no  other  rea- 
son but  because  dark  and  light  contrast  together,  that  a 
slight  expression  of  satiety  may  be  permitted  to  me,  and 
a  longing   for   more    simple    nature.     On   a  great  staring 


170     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

theatre  such  pictures  may  do  very  well  —  you  are  obliged 
there  to  seek  for  these  startling  contrasts  ;  and  by  the  aid 
of  blue  lights,  red  lights,  transparencies,  and  plenty  of 
drums  and  appropriate  music,  the  scene  thus  presented  to 
one  captivates  the  eye,  and  calls  down  thunder  from  the 
galleries. 

But  in  little  quiet  rooms,  on  sheets  of  paper  of  a  yard 
square,  such  monstrous  theatrical  effects  are  sadly  painful. 
You  don't  mistake  patches  of  brickdust  for  maidens' 
blushes,  or  fancy  that  tinfoil  is  diamonds,  or  require  to  be 
spoken  to  with  the  utmost  roar  of  the  lungs.  Why,  in 
painting,  are  we  to  have  monstrous,  flaring,  Drury  Lane 
tricks  and  claptraps  put  in  practice,  when  a  quieter  style  is, 
as  I  fancy,  so  infinitely  more  charming  ? 

There  is  no  use  in  mentioning  the  names  of  persons  who 
are  guilty  of  the  above  crimes  ;  but  let  us  sa}^  who  is  not 
guilty,  and  that  is  D.  Cox,  upon  whose  quiet  landscapes, 
moist  grass,  cool  trees,  the  refreshed  eye  rests  with  the 
utmost  pleasure,  after  it  has  been  perplexed  and  dazzled 
elsewhere.  May  we  add  an  humble  wish  that  this  excel- 
lent painter  will  remain  out  of  doors,  amidst  such  quiet 
scenes  as  he  loves,  and  not  busy  himself  with  Gothicism, 
middleageism,  and  the  painting  of  quaint  interiors  ?  There 
are  a  dozen  artists,  of  not  a  tithe  of  his  genius,  who  can 
excel  him  at  the  architectural  work.  There  is,  for  instance, 
Mr.  Nash,  who  is  improving  yearly,  and  whose  pictures  are 
not  only  most  dexterously  sketched,  but  contain  number- 
less little  episodes,  in  the  shape  of  groups  of  figures,  that 
are  full  of  grace  and  feeling.  There  is  Mr.  Haghe,  too,  of 
the  lower  house  ;  but  of  him  anon. 

To  show  how  ill  and  how  well  a  man  may  paint  at  the 
same  time,  the  public  may  look  at  a  couple  of  drawings  by 
J.  Nash — one,  the  interior  of  a  church;  the  other,  a  plain 
landscape :  both  of  which  are  executed  with  excessive, 
almost  childish  rudeness,  and  are  yet  excellent,  as  being 
close  copies  of  the  best  of  all  drawing-masters,  Nature  :  and 
Mr.  Barrett,  who  has  lately  written  a  book  for  students,  tells 
them  very  sagaciously  not  to  copy  the  manner  of  any  mas- 
ter, however  much  he  may  be  in  the  mode.  Some  there 
are,  fashionable  instructors  in  the  art  of  water-coloring,  of 
whom,  indeed,  a  man  had  better  not  learn  at  any  price ; 
nay,  were  they  to  offer  a  guinea  per  lesson,  instead  of  mod- 
estly demanding  the  same,  the  reader  should  be  counselled 
not  to  accept  of  their  instructions. 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  171 

See  in  what  a  different  school  jMr.  Hunt  works,  and  what 
marvellous  effects  he  produces  !  There  is  a  small  picture 
of  an  interior  by  him  (to  which  the  blue  ticket  liaving  the 
pretty  word  sold  written  on  it  is  not  fixed)  that,  as  a  copy 
of  nature,  is  a  perfect  miracle.  Xo  De  Hooglie  was  ever 
better,  more  airy  and  sunshiny.  And  the  most  extraordi- 
nary part  of  this  extraordinary  picture  is,  that  the  artist 
has  not  produced  his  effect  of  excessive  brilliancy  by  any 
violent  contrasting  darkness ;  but  the  whole  picture  is 
light ;  the  sunshine  is  in  every  corner  of  the  room  ;  and 
this  drawing  remains  unsold,  while  Dash,  and  Blank,  and 
Asterisk  have  got  off  all  theirs.  The  large  head  of  the 
black  girl  is  painted  with  wonderful  power ;  in  water-colors, 
we  have  scarcely  seen  anything  so  vigorous.  The  bo3-s  and 
virgins  are,  as  usual,  admirable  ;  the  lad  with  the  bottle, 
he  reading  ballads  in  the  barn,  and  the  red,  ragged,  brick- 
dust-colored,  brigand-looking  fellow,  especially  good.  In  a 
corner  is  a  most  astonishing  young  gentleman  with  a  pan 
of  milk  :  he  is  stepping  forward  full  in  your  face;  and  has 
seen  something  in  it  which  has  caused  him  to  spill  his 
milk  and  look  dreadfully  frightened.  Every  man,  who  is 
worth  a  fig,  as  he  comes  up  to  this  picture,  bursts  out 
a-laughing  —  he  can't  lielp  himself;  you  hear  a  dozen  such 
laughs  in  the  course  of  your  visit.  Why  does  this  little 
drawing  so  seize  hold  of  the  beholder  and  cause  him  to 
roar  ?  There  is  the  secret :  the  painter  has  got  the  soul  of 
comedy  in  him  —  the  undefinable  humorous  genius.  Happy 
is  the  man  who  possesses  that  drawing :  a  man  must  laugh 
if  he  were  taking  his  last  look  at  it  before  being  hanged. 

]\Ir.  Taylor's  flowing  pencil  has  produced  several  pieces 
of  delightful  color ;  but  we  are  led  bitterly  to  deplore  the 
use  of  that  fatal  white-lead  pot,  that  is  clogging  and  black- 
ening the  pictures  of  so  many  of  the  water-color  painters 
nowadays.  His  large  picture  contains  a  great  deal  of  this 
white  mud,  and  has  lost,  as  we  fancy,  in  consequence,  much 
of  that  liquid  mellow  tone  for  which  his  works  are  remark- 
able. The  retreating  figures  in  this  picture  are  beautiful ; 
the  horses  are  excellently  painted,  with  as  much  dexterous 
brilliancy  of  color  as  one  sees  in  the  oil  pictures  of  Land- 
seer.  If  the  amateur  wants  to  see  how  far  transparent 
color  will  go,  what  rich  effect  may  be  produced  by  it,  how 
little  necessary  it  is  to  plaster  drawings  with  flakes  of 
white,  let  him  examine  the  background  of  the  design  rep- 
resenting a  page  asleep  on  a  chair,  than  which  nothing  can 


172     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

be  more  melodious  in  color,  or  more  skilfully  and  naturally 
painted. 

In  the  beauty  gallery  which  this  exhibition  usually  fur- 
nishes, there  is  Mr.  liichter,  who  contributes  his  usual 
specimens ;  the  fair  Miss  Sharpe,  with  those  languishing- 
eyed  charmers  whom  the  world  admires  so  much  ;  and, 
still  more  to  our  taste,  a  sweet  pretty  lady,  by  Mr.  Stone, 
in  a  hideous  dress,  with  upper-Benjamin  buttons  ;  a  couple 
of  very  graceful  and  delicate  heads  by  Wright ;  and  one 
beautiful  head,  a  portrait  evidently,  by  Cristall,  that  is 
placed  very  modestly  in  a  corner  near  the  ground  —  where 
such  a  drawing  should  be  placed,  of  course,  being  vigorous, 
honest,  natural,  and  beautiful.  This  artist's  other  drawing 
—  a  mysterious  subject,  representing  primeval  Scotchmen, 
rocks,  waterfalls,  a  cataract  of  bulls,  and  other  strange 
things,  looks  like  a  picture  painted  in  a  dream.  Near  it 
hangs  Mr.  Mackenzie's  view  of  Saint  Denis's  Cathedral, 
that  is  painted  with  great  carefulness,  and  is  very  true  to 
nature.  And  having  examined  this,  and  Mr.  Varley's  fine 
gloomy  sketches,  you  shall  be  no  longer  detained  at  this 
place,  but  walk  on  to  see  what  more  remains  to  be  seen. 

Of  the  New  Water-Color  Society,  I  think  it  may  be  as- 
serted  that  their  gallery  contains  neither  such  good  nor 
such  bad  drawings  as  may  be  seen  in  the  senior  exhibition ; 
unless,  indeed,  we  except  Mr.  Haghe,  a  gentleman  who  in 
architectural  subjects  has  a  marvellous  skill,  and  whose 
work  deserves  to  be  studied  by  all  persons  who  follow  the 
trade  of  water-coloring.  This  gentleman  appears  to  have 
a  profound  knowledge  (or  an  extraordinary  instinct)  of  his 
profession  as  an  architectural  draughtsman.  There  are  no 
tricks,  no  clumsy  plastering  of  white,  no  painful  niggling, 
nor  swaggering  affectation  of  boldness.  He  seems  to  un- 
derstand every  single  tone  and  line  Avhich  he  lays  down  ; 
and  his  picture,  in  my  humble  judgment,  contains  some  of 
the  very  best  qualities  of  which  this  branch  of  painting  is 
capable.  You  cannot  produce  by  any  combination  of  water- 
colors  such  effects  as  may  be  had  from  oil,  such  richness 
and  depth  of  tone,  such  pleasing  variety  of  texture,  as 
gums  and  varnishes  will  give  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  many  beauties  peculiar  to  the  art,  which  the  oil- 
painter  cannot  arrive  at,  —  such  as  air,  brightness,  cool- 
ness, and  flatness  of  surface ;  points  which  painters 
understand  and  can  speak  of  a  great  deal  better  tham  ama- 


A    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  173 

teur  writers  and  readers.  Why  will  the  practitioners, 
then,  be  so  ambitious  ?  Why  strive  after  effects  that  are 
only  to  be  got  imperfectly  at  best,  and  at  the  expense 
of  qualities  far  more  valuable  and  pleasing  ?  There  are 
some  aspiring  individuals  who  will  strive  to  play  a  whole 
band  of  music  off  a  guitar,  or  to  perform  the  broadsword 
exercise  with  a  rapier,  —  monstrous  attempts,  that  the 
moral  critic  must  lift  up  his  voice  to  reprehend.  Valu- 
able instruments  are  guitars  and  small-swords  in  them- 
selves, the  one  for  making  pleasant  small  music,  the  other 
for  drilling  small  holes  in  the  human  person ;  but  let  the 
professor  of  each  art  do  his  agreeable  duty  in  his  own  line, 
nor  strive  with  his  unequal  weapons  to  compete  with  per- 
sons who  have  greater  advantages.  Indeed,  I  have  seldom 
seen  the  works  of  a  skilful  water-color  ])ainter  of  figures, 
without  regretting  that  he  had  not  taken  to  oil,  which 
would  allow  him  to  put  forth  all  the  vigor  of  which  he  was 
capable.  For  works,  however,  like  that  of  ^Ir.  Haghe, 
which  are  not  finished  pictures,  but  admirable  finished 
sketches,  water  is  best ;  and  we  wish  that  his  brethren  fol- 
lowed his  manner  of  using  it.  Take  warning  by  these 
remarks,  0  I\Ir.  Absolon !  Your  interiors  have  been  re- 
garded by  Titmarsh  with  much  ])leasure,  and  deserve  at 
his  hands  a  great  deal  of  commendation.  Mr.  Absolon,  we 
take  it,  has  been  brought  up  in  a  French  school  —  there 
are  many  traces  of  foreign  manner  in  him ;  his  figures,  for 
instance,  are  better  costuini'd  than  those  of  our  common 
English  artists.  Look  at  the  little  sketch  which  goes  by 
the  laconic  title  of  "  Jump."  Let  Mrs.  Seyffarth  come  and 
look  at  it  before  she  paints  Sir  lloger  de  Coverley's  figure 
again,  and  she  will  see  what  an  air  of  life  and  authenticity 
the  designer  has  thrown  into  his  work.  Several  larger 
pieces  by  Mr.  Absolon,  in  which  are  a  face  —  is  it  the 
artist's  own,  by  any  chance  ?  —  (We  fancy  that  we  have  a 
knack  at  guessing  a  portrait  of  an  artist  by  himself,  having 
designed  about  five  thousand  such  in  our  own  experience, 
—  "  Portrait  of  a  Painter,"  "'  A  Gentleman  in  a  Vandyke 
Dress,"  '•  A  Brigand,'"  •'•'  A  Turkish  Costume,"  and  so  on  : 
they  are  somehow  always  rejected  by  those  cursed  Academ- 
icians) —  but  to  return  to  Absolon,  whom  we  have  left 
hanging  up  all  this  time  on  the  branch  of  a  sentence,  he 
has  taken  hugely  to  the  body-color  system  within  the  last 
twelve  months,  and  small  good  has  it  done  him.  The  ac- 
cessories of  his  pictures  are  painted  with  much  vigor  and 


174     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

feeling  of  color,  are  a  great  deal  stronger  than  heretofore 
—  a  great  deal  too  strong  for  the  figures  themselves  ;  and 
the  figures,  being  painted  chiefly  in  transparent  color,  will 
not  bear  the  atmosphere  of  distemper  by  which  they  are 
surrounded.  The  picture  of  "  The  Bachelor  "  is  excellent 
in  point  of  effect  and  justness  of  color. 

Mr.  Corbould  is  a  gentleman  who  must  be  mentioned 
with  a  great  deal  of  praise.  His  large  drawing  of  the 
"  Canterbury  Pilgrims  at  the  Tabard "  is  very  gay  and 
sj^arkling ;  and  the  artist  shows  that  he  possesses  a  genu- 
ine antiquarian  or  Walter-Scottish  spirit.  It  is  a  pity  that 
his  people  are  all  so  uncommon  handsome.  It  is  a  pity 
that  his  ladies  wear  such  uncommonly  low  dresses  —  they 
did  not  wear  such  (according  to  the  best  authorities)  in 
Chaucer's  time  ;  and  even  if  they  did,  Mr.  Corbould  had 
much  better  give  them  a  little  more  cloth,  which  costs 
nothing,  and  would  spare  much  painful  blushing  to  mod- 
est men  like  —  never  mind  whom.  But  this  is  a  moral 
truth  ;  nothing  is  so  easy  to  see  in  a  painter  as  a  certain 
inclination  towards  naughtiness,  which  we  press-Josephs 
are  bound  to  cry  fie  at.  Cover  them  up,  Mr.  Corbould  — 
muslin  is  the  word:  but  of  this  no  more.  Where  the 
painter  departs  from  his  line  of  beauty,  his  faces  have  con- 
siderable humor  and  character.  The  whole  of  the  pilgrim 
group,  as  he  has  depicted  it,  is  exceedingly  picturesque. 
It  might  be  painted  with  a  little  more  strength,  and  a  good 
deal  less  finical  trifling  with  the  pencil;  but  of  these 
manual  errors  the  painter  will  no  doubt  get  the  better  as 
his  practice  and  experience  increase. 

Here  is  a  large  and  interesting  picture  by  Mr.  Warren, 
of  the  Pasha  of  Egypt  in  the  middle  of  the  ISTubian  desert, 
surrounded  by  pipe-bearers  and  camels,  and  taking  his  cup 
of  coffee.  There  is  much  character  both  in  the  figures  and 
scenery.  A  slight  sketch  by  the  same  artist,  "  The  King  in 
Thule,"  is  very  pretty,  and  would  make  a  very  good  picture. 

Mr.  Bright  is  an  artist  of  whom  we  do  not  before  remem- 
ber to  have  heard.  His  pictures  are  chiefly  effects  of  sun- 
set and  moonlight ;  of  too  crlarde  a  color  as  regards  sun 
and  moon,  but  pretty  and  skilful  in  other  points,  and  of  a 
style  that  strikes  us  as  almost  new.  The  manner  of  a 
French  artist,  Monsieur  Collignon,  somewhat  resembles 
that  of  Mr.  Bright.  The  cool  parts  of  his  pictures  are  ex- 
cellent; but  he  has  dangerous  dealings  with  gamboge  and 
orange,  pigments  with  the  use  of  which  a  painter  is  bound 


.1    PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  175 

to  be  uncommonly  cautious.  Look  at  ^Ir.  Turner,  who  has 
taken  to  them  until  they  have  driv^en  him  quite  wild.  If 
there  be  any  Emperor  of  the  Painters,  he  should  issue  "  a 
special  edict"  against  the  gamboge-dealers:  —  'tis  a  delete- 
rious drug.  "  Hasten,  hasten,'*  Mr,  Bright ;  '•  obey  with 
trembling,"  and  have  a  care  of  gamboge  henceforth. 

For  the  rest  of  the  artists  at  this  place,  it  may  be  said 
that  31  r.  Hicks  has  not  been  quite  so  active  this  year  as 
formerly;  Mr.  Boys  has  some  delightful  drawings  in  his 
style  of  art;  and  for  the  curious  there  is,  moreover,  a 
second-hand  Cattermole,  a  sham  Front,  a  pseudo-Bentley, 
and  a  small  double  of  Cox,  whose  works  are  to  be  seen  in 
various  parts  of  the  room.  Miss  Corbould  has  a  pretty 
picture.  3Ir.  Duncan's  drawings  exhibit  considerable  skill 
and  fidelity  to  nature.  And  here  we  must  close  our  list  of 
the  juniors,  whose  exhibition  is  very  well  worth  the  shilling 
which  all  must  pay  who  would  enter  their  pretty  gallery. 

We  have  been  through  a  luimber  of  picture  galleries,  and 
cannot  do  better  than  go  and  visit  a  gentleman  who  has  a 
gallery  of  his  own,  containing  only  one  picture.  We  mean 
Mr.  Danby,  with  his  "  Deluge,"  now  visible  in  Piccadilly. 
Every  person  in  London  will  no  doubt  go  and  see  this  : 
artists,  because  the  treatment  and  effect  of  the  picture  are 
extraordinarily  skilful  and  broad ;  and  the  rest  of  the 
world,  who  cannot  fail  of  being  deeply  moved  by  the  awful 
tragedy  which  is  here  laid  before  them.  The  work  is  full 
of  the  strongest  dramatic  interest ;  a  vast  performance, 
grandly  treated,  and  telling  in  a  wonderful  way  its  solemn 
awful  tale.  ]\Ir.  Danby  has  given  a  curious  description  of  it 
to  our  hand  ;  and  from  this  the  reader  will  be  able  to  under- 
stand what  is  the  design  and  treatment  of  the  piece. 

[Here  follows  a  long  description  of  the  picture.] 

The  episode  of  the  angel  is  the  sole  part  of  the  picture 
with  which  we  should  be  disposed  to  quarrel ;  but  the  rest, 
which  has  been  excellently  described  in  the  queer  wild 
words  of  the  artist,  is  really  as  grand  and  magnificent  a 
conception  as  ever  we  saw.  Why  Poussin's  famous  picture 
of  an  inundation  has  been  called  "  The  Deluge,"  I  never 
could  understand  :  it  is  only  a  veiy  small  and  partial  deluge. 
The  artist  has  genius  enough,  if  any  artist  ever  had,  to 
have  executed  a  work  far  more  vast  and  tremendous  ;  nor 


176      ClU  TIC  ISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

floes  his  picture  at  the  Louvre^  nor  Turner's  Deluge,  nor 
Martin's,  nor  any  that  we  have  ever  seen,  at  all  stand  a 
competition  with  this  extraordinary  performance  of  Mr. 
Danby.  He  has  painted  the  picture  of  "The  Deluge  ;"  we 
have  before  our  eyes  still  the  ark  in  the  midst  of  the  ruin 
floating  calm  and  lonely,  the  great  black  cataracts  of  water 
pouring  down,  the  mad  rush  of  the  miserable  people  clam- 
bering up  the  rocks; — nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  way 
in  which  the  artist  has  painted  the  picture  in  all  its  innu- 
merable details,  and  we  hope  to  hear  that  his  room  will  be 
hourly  crowded,  and  his  great  labor  and  genius  rewarded  in 
some  degree. 

Let  us  take  some  rest  after  beholding  this  picture,  and 
what  place  is  cooler  and  more  quiet  than  the  Suffolk  Street 
Gallery  ?  If  not  remarkable  for  any  pictures  of  extraor- 
dinary merit,  it  is  at  least  to  be  praised  as  a  place  singularly 
favorable  to  meditation.  It  is  a  sweet  calm  solitude,  lighted 
from  the  top  with  convenient  blinds  to  keep  out  the  sun. 
If  you  have  an  assignation,  bid  your  mistress  to  come 
hither,  there  is  only  a  dumb  secretary  in  the  room  ;  and 
sitting,  like  the  man  in  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  perpetually 
before  a  great  book,  in  which  he  pores.  This  would  be  a 
grand  place  to  hatch  a  conspiracy,  to  avoid  a  dun,  to  write 
an  epic  poem.  Something  ails  the  place  !  What  is  it  ?  — 
what  keeps  the  people  away,  and  gives  the  moneytaker 
in  his  box  a  gloomy  lonely  sinecure  ?  Alas,  and  alas  !  not 
even  Mr.  Haydon's  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  is  strong  enough 
to  pull  the  people  in. 

And  yet  this  picture  is  worth  going  to  see.  You  may 
here  take  occasion  to  observe  the  truth  of  Mr.  Yorke's 
astute  remark  about  another  celebrated  artist,  and  see  how 
bad  a  painter  is  this  great  ivriter  of  historical  paintings,  Mr. 
Haydon.  There  is  an  account  in  some  of  the  late  papers 
—  from  America,  of  course  —  of  a  remarkably  fat  boy,  three 
years  old,  five  feet  six  high,  with  a  fine  bass  voice,  and  a 
handsome  beard  and  whiskers.  Much  such  a  hero  is  this 
Samson  —  a  great  red  chubby-cheeked  monster,  looking  at 
you  with  the  most  earnest,  mild,  dull  eyes  in  the  world,  and 
twisting  about  a  brace  of  ropes,  as  he  comes  sprawling  for- 
wards. Sprawling  backwards  is  a  Delilah  —  such  a  Delilah, 
with  such  an  arm,  with  such  a  dress,  on  such  a  sofa,  with 
such  a  set  of  ruffians  behind  her !  The  picture  is  perfectly 
amazing !     Is  this  the  author  of  the  "  Judgment  of  Solo 


A   PICTORIAL   RHAPSODY.  177 

setter  up  of  the  great  style  of 
painting  in  this  country  ?  The  drawing  of  the  figures  is 
uot  only  faulty,  but  bad  and  careless  as  can  be.  It  never 
was  nor  could  be  in  nature  ;  and,  such  as  it  is,  the  drawing 
is  executed  in  a  manner  so  loose  and  slovenly  that  one 
wonders  to  behold  it.  Is  this  the  way  in  which  a  chef 
d'ecole  condescends  to  send  forth  a  picture  to  the  public  ? 
Would  he  have  his  scholars  finish  no  more  and  draw  no 
better  ?  Look  at  a  picture  of  "  Milton  and  his  Daughters,"' 
the  same  subject  which  Sir  A.  Callcott  has  treated  in  the 
Academy,  which  painters  will  insist  upon  treating,  so  pro- 
foundly interesting  does  it  seem  to  be.  Mr.  Haydon's 
"  Milton  "  is  playing  on  the  organ,  and  turning  his  blind 
eyes  towards  the  public  with  an  expression  that  is  abso- 
lutely laughable.  A  buxom  wench  in  huge  gigot  sleeves 
stands  behind  the  chair,  another  is  at  a  table  writing.  The 
draperies  of  the  ladies  are  mere  smears  of  color ;  in  the 
foreground  lies  a  black  cat  or  dog.  a  smudge  of  lamp-black, 
in  which  the  painter  has  not  condescended  to  draw  a  figure. 
The  chair  of  the  poetical  organ-player  is  a  similar  lump  of 
red  and  brown  ;  nor  is  the  conception  of  the  picture,  to  our 
thinking,  one  whit  better  than  the  execution.  If  this  be 
the  true  style  of  art,  there  is  another  great  work  of  the 
kind  at  the  "  Saracen's  Head,''  Snow  Hill,  which  had  better 
be  purchased  for  the  National  Gallery. 

Mr.  Hurlstone  has,  as  usual,  chosen  this  retired  spot  to 
exhibit  a  very  great  number  of  pictures.  There  is  much 
good  in  almost  all  of  these.  The  children  especially  are 
painted  with  great  truth  and  sweetness  of  expression,  but 
we  never  shall  be  able  to  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  extraor- 
dinary dirtiness  of  the  color.  Here  are  ladies'  dresses 
■which  look  as  if  they  had  served  for  ]\Iay-day,  and  arms 
and  shoulders  such  as  might  have  belonged  to  Cinderella. 
Once  in  a  wa}^  the  artist  shows  he  can  paint  a  clean  face, 
such  an  one  is  that  of  a  child  in  the  little  room ;  it  is 
charming,  if  the  artist  did  but  know  it,  how  much  more 
charming  for  being  clean  !  A  very  good  picture  of  a  sub- 
ject somewhat  similar  to  those  which  Mr.  Hurlstone  loves 
to  paint  is  Mr.  Buckner's  '•  Peasants  of  Sora  in  the  Regno 
di  Napoli."  The  artist  has  seen  the  works  of  Leopold 
Robert,  and  profited  evidently  by  the  study  of  them. 

Concerning  other  artists  whose  works  appear  in  this  gal- 
lery, we  should  speak  favorably  of  Mr.  O'Neill,  who  has 
two  prettj^  pictures  ;  of  a  couple  of  animal  pieces,  "  A  Pony 


178      CRITICISMS   IN   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

and  Cows,"  by  Mr.  Sosi ;  and  of  a  pretty  picture  by  Mr. 
Elmore,  a  vast  deal  better  than  his  great  Becket  perform- 
ance before  alluded  to.  Mr.  Tomkins  has  some  skilful 
street  scenes ;  and  Mr.  Holland,  a  large,  raw,  clever  picture 
of  JNIilan  Cathedral.  And  so  farewell  to  this  quiet  spot, 
and  let  us  take  a  peep  at  the  British  Gallery,  where  a  whole 
room  is  devoted  to  the  exhibition  of  Mr.  Hilton,  the  late 
Academician. 

A  man's  sketches  and  his  pictures  should  never  be  ex- 
hibited together  ;  the  sketches  invariably  kill  the  pictures  ; 
are  far  more  vigorous,  masterly,  and  effective.  Some  of 
those  hanging  here,  chiefly  subjects  from  Spenser,  are  ex- 
cellent indeed  ;  and  fine  in  drawing,  color,  and  composition. 
The  decision  and  spirit  of  the  sketch  disappear  continually 
in  the  finished  piece,  as  any  one  may  see  in  examining  the 
design  for  "  Comus,"  and  the  large  picture  afterwards,  the 
two  "Amphitrites,"  and  many  others.  Were  the  sketches, 
however,  removed,  the  beholder  would  be  glad  to  admit  the 
great  feeling  and  grace  of  the  pictures,  and  the  kindly 
poetical  spirit  which  distinguishes  the  works  of  the  master. 
Besides  the  Hiltons,  the  picture-lover  has  here  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  a  fine  Virgin  by  Julio  Romano,  and  a  most 
noble  one  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  than  which  I  never  saw 
anything  more  majestically  beautiful.  The  simpering 
beauties  of  some  of  the  Virgins  of  the  Raphael  school 
many  painters  are  successful  in  imitating.  See,  0  ye 
painters  !  how  in  Michael  Angelo  strength  and  beauty  are 
here  combined,  wonderful  chastity  and  grace,  humility,  and  a 
grandeur  almost  divine.  The  critic  must  have  a  care  as  he 
talks  of  these  pictures,  however,  for  his  words  straightway 
begin  to  grow  turgid  and  pompous  ;  and,  lo  !  at  the  end  of  his 
lines,  the  picture  is  not  a  whit  better  described  than  before. 

And  now,  having  devoted  space  enough  to  the  discussion 
of  the  merits  of  these  different  galleries  and  i^ainters,  I  am 
come  to  the  important  part  of  this  paper  —  viz.  to  my 
Essay  on  the  State  of  the  Eine  Arts  in  this  Kingdom,  my 
Proposals  for  the  General  Improvement  of  Public  Taste, 
and  my  Plan  for  the  Education  of  Young  Artists. 

In  the  first  place,  I  propose  that  Government  should 
endow  a  college  for  painters,  where  they  may  receive  the 
benefits  of  a  good  literary  education,  without  which  artists 
will  never  prosper.     I  propose  that  lectures  should  be  read, 


I 


A   PICTORIAL    RIIArsODY.  I79 

examinations  held,  and  prizes  and  exhibitions  given  to 
students;  that  professorships  should  be  instituted,  and  — 
and  a  president  or  lord  rector  appointed,  with  a  baronetcy, 
a  house,  and  a  couple  of  thousands  a  year.  This  place,  of 
course,  will  be  offered  to  Michael  Angelo  Tit 

iNIr.  Titinarsh's  paper  came  to  us  exactly  as  the  reader 
here  sees  it.  His  contribution  had  been  paid  for  in  ad- 
vance, and  we  regret  exceedingly  that  the  public  should  be 
deprived  of  what  seemed  to  be  the  most  valuable  part  of  it. 
He  has  never  been  heard  of  since  the  first  day  of  June. 
He  was  seen  on  that  day  pacing  Waterloo  Bridge  for  two 
hours  ;  but  whether  he  plunged  into  the  river,  or  took 
advantage  of  the  steamboat  and  went  down  it  only,  we 
cannot  state. 

AVhy  this  article  was  incomplete,  the  following  docu- 
ment will,  perliaps,  show.  It  is  the  work  of  the  waiter  at 
^loreland's  Hotel,  where  the  eccentric  and  unhappy  gentle- 
man resided. 

STATEMENT    BY    MRS.    BARBARA. 

"On  the  evening  of  the  30th  of  May,  Anay  Domino  1840, 
Mr.  Mike  Titmash  came  into  our  house  in  a  wonderful 
state  of  delarium,  drest  in  a  new  coat,  a  new  bloo  satting 
hankysher,  a  new  wite  at.  and  polisht  jipannd  boots,  all  of 
which  he'd  bot  sins  he  went  out  after  dinner;  nor  did  he 
bring  any  of  his  old  cloves  back  with  him,  though  he'd 
often  said,  '  Barbara,'  says  he  to  rae,  '  when  Mr.  Frasier 
pays  me  my  money,  and  I  git  new  ones,  you  shall  have 
these  as  your  requisites : '  that  was  his  very  words,  thof  I 
must  confess  I  don't  understand  the  same. 

"  He'd  had  dinner  and  cougliy  before  he  went ;  and  we 
all  eumjectured  that  he'd  been  somewhere  particklar,  for  I 
heer'd  him  barging  with  a  cabman  from  Holly  well  Street, 
of  which  he  said  the  fair  was  only  hatepence ;  but  being 
ableeged  to  pay  a  shilling,  he  cust  and  swoar  horrybill. 

"  He  came  in,  ordered  some  supper,  laft  and  joakt  with 
the  gents  in  the  parlor,  and  shewed  them  a  deal  of  money, 
which  some  of  the  gentlemen  was  so  good  as  to  purpose  to 
borry  of  him. 

"  They  talked  about  literaryture  and  the  fine  harts  (which 
is  both  much  used  by  our  gentlemen) ;  and  ]\[r.  ]\Iike  was 
very  merry.     Specially  he   sung   them  a  song,   which  he 


180      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

ancored  liisself  for  twenty  minutes  ;  and  ordered  a  bole  of 
our  punch,  which  is  chocked  against  his  skor  to  this  very 
day. 

"  About  twelve  o'clock  he  went  to  bed,  very  comfortable 
and  quiet,  only  he  cooldnt  stand  on  his  legs  very  well,  and 
cooldnt  speak  much,  excep,  'Frasier  forever!'  'All  of  a 
York  ! '  and  some  such  nonsense,  which  neither  me  nor 
George  nor  Mrs.  Stoaks  could  understand. 

" '  What's  the  matter  ?  '  says  Mrs.  Stokes.  '  Barbara,' 
says  she  to  me,  '  has  he  taken  any  thin  ? '  says  she. 

'•''Law  bless  you,  mum  !'  says  I  (I  always  says.  Law  bless 
you),  'as  I  am  a  Christen  woman,  and  hope  to  be  married, 
he's  had  nothin  out  of  common.' 

" '  What  had  he  for  dinner  ? '  says  she,  as  if  she  didn't 
know. 

"  '  There  was  biled  salmon,'  says  I,  '  and  a  half-crown 
lobster  in  soss  (bless  us  if  he  left  so  much  as  a  clor  or  tis- 
spunful !),  boil  pork  and  peace  puddn,  and  a  secknd  course 
of  beef  steak  and  onions,  cole  plumpuddn,  maccarony,  and 
afterwards  cheese  and  sallat.' 

" '  I  don't  mean  that,'  says  she.  '  What  was  his  liquors, 
or  bavyrage  ? ' 

" '  Two  Guineas's  stouts ;  old  Madeira,  one  pint ;  port, 
half  a  ditto  ;  four  tumlers  of  niggus  ;  and  three  cole  brandy 
and  water,  and  sigars.' 

" '  He  is  a  good  fellow,'  says  Mrs.  Stokes,  '  and  spends 
his  money  freely,  that  I  declare.' 

"  '  I  wish  he'd  ony  ^j^ct^  it,'  says  I  to  Mrs.  Stokes,  says  I. 
'  He's  lived  in  our  house  any  time  these  fourteen  years  and 
never ' — 

"'Hush  your  imperence ! '  saj^s  Mrs.  Stokes;  'he's  a 
gentleman,  and  pays  when  he  pleases.  He's  not  one  of 
your  common  sort.     Did  he  have  any  tea  ?  ' 

"'No,'  says  I,  'not  a  drop;  ony  coughy  and  muffns.  I 
told  you  so  — three  on  'em  ;  and  growled  preciously,  too, 
because  there  was  no  more.  But  I  wasn't  a  going  to  fetch 
him  any  more,  he  whose  money  we'd  never '  — 

"  '  Barbara,'  says  Mrs.  Stokes,  '  leave  the  room  —  do. 
You're  always  a  suspecting  every  gentleman.  Well,  what 
did  he  have  at  supper  ?  ' 

"  '  You  know,'  says  I,  '  pickled  salmon  —  that  chap's  a 
reglar  devil  at  salmon'  (those  were  my  very  words)  —  'cold 
pork,  and  cold  peace  puddn  agin  ;  toasted  chease  this  time  ; 
and  such  a  lot  of  hale  and  rum-punch  as  I   never  saw  — 


A   PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY.  181 

nine  glasses  of  heach,  I  do  believe,  as  I  am  an  honest 
woman.' 

"  'Barbara,*  says  mistress,  'that's  not  the  question.  Did 
he  mix  his  liquors,  Barbara  ?     That's  the  pint.' 

"'No,'  says  I,  'Mrs.  Stokes;  that  indeed  he  didn't.' 
And  so  we  agread  that  he  couldnt  posbly  be  alfected  b}' 
drink,  and  that  something  wiinderfle  must  have  hapned  to 
him,  to  send  him  to  bed  so  quear  like. 

"  Xex  morning  I  took  him  his  tea  in  bed  (on  the  4th  flore 
back,  Xo  104  was  his  number)  ;  and  says  he  to  me,  '  Bar- 
bara,' says  he,  '  you  find  me  in  sperrits.' 

"  '  Find  you  in  sperrits  I  I  believe  we  do,'  says  I ;  '  we've 
found  you  in  'em  these  fifteen  year.  I  wish  you'd  find  us 
in  money,''  says  I;  and  laft,  too,  for  I  thought  it  was  a 
good  un. 

"'Pooh!'  says  he,  'my  dear,  that's  not  what  I  mean. 
You  find  me  in  spirits  b3-cause  my  exlent  publisher,  ^Ir. 
Frasier,  of  Regent  Street,  paid  me  handsum  for  a  remark- 
able harticle  I  wrote  in  his  Magazine.  He  gives  twice  as 
much  as  the  other  publishers,'  says  he  ;  '  though,  if  he 
didn't,  I'd  write  for  him  just  the  same  —  rayther  more,  I'm 
so  fond  of  him.' 

"  '  How  much  has  he  gave  you  ?  '  says  I ;  '  because  I  hope 
you'll  pay  us." 

"  '  Oh,'  says  he,  after  a  bit,  '  a  lot  of  money.  Here,  you. 
you  darling,'  says  he  (he  did  ;  upon  my  word,  he  did),  '  go 
and  git  me  change  for  a  five-pound  note.' 

"  And  when  he  got  up  and  had  his  brekfast,  and  been 
out,  he  changed  another  five-pound  note ;  and  after  lunch, 
another  five-pound  note ;  and  when  he  came  in  to  dine, 
another  five-pound  note,  to  pay  the  cabman.  Well,  thought 
we,  he's  made  of  money,  and  so  he  seemed :  but  you  shall 
hear  soon  how  it  was  that  he  had  all  them  notes  to  change. 

"After  dinner  he  was  a  sitten  over  his  punch,  when 
some  of  our  gents  came  in :  and  he  began  to  talk  and  brag 
to  them  about  his  harticle,  and  what  he  had  for  it  ;  and 
that  he  was  the  best  cricket*  in  Europe;  and  how  Mr. 
Murray  had  begged  to  be  introjuiced  to  him,  and  was  so 
pleased  with  him,  and  he  with  Murray ;  and  how  he'd  been 
asked  to  write  in  the  Quartly  Review,  and  in  bless  us 
Vnows  what ;  and  how,  in  fact,  he  was  going  to  carry  all 
London  by  storm. 

*  Critic.  Mrs.  Barbara  means,  an  absurd  monomania  of  Mr.  Titmarsh. 


182     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

'''Have  you  seen  what  the  Morning  Poast  says  of  you  ?  ' 
says  Frank  Flint,  one  of  them  hartist  chaps  as  comes  to 
our  house. 

" '  No,'  says  he,  '  1  aint.  Barbara,  bring  some  more 
punch,  do  you  hear  ?  No,  I  aint ;  but  that's  a  fashnable 
jiaper,'  says  he,  '  and  always  takes  notice  of  a  fashnable  chap 
like  me.     What  does  it  say  ? '  says  he. 

"  ]\Ir.  Flint  opened  his  mouth  and  grinned  very  wide ; 
and  taking  the  Morning  Poast  out  of  his  pocket  (he  was  a 
great  friend  of  Mr.  Titmarsh's,  and,  like  a  good-naterd 
friend  as  he  was,  had  always  a  kind  thing  to  say  or  do)  — 
Frank  pulls  out  a  Morning  Poast,  I  say  (which  had  cost 
Frank  Phippens  *)  :  '  Here  it  is,'  says  he  ;  '  read  for  your- 
self;  it  will  make  you  quite  happy.'  And  so  he  began  to 
grin  to  all  the  gents  like  winkin. 

"When  he  red  it,  Titmarsh's  jor  dropt  all  of  a  sudn:  he 
turned  pupple,  and  bloo,  and  violate;  and  then,  with  a 
mighty  effut,  he  swigg  off  his  rum  and  water,  and  staggered 
out  of  the  room. 

"He  looked  so  ill  when  he  went  up  stairs  to  bed,  that 
Mrs.  Stokes  insisted  upon  making  him  some  grool  for  him 
to  have  warm  in  bed ;  but,  Lor  bless  you !  he  threw  it  in 
my  face  when  I  went  up,  and  rord  and  swor  so  dredfle, 
that  I  rann  down  stairs  quite  frightened. 

"  Nex  morning  I  knockt  at  his  dor  at  nine  —  no  anser. 

"  At  ten,  tried  agin  —  never  a  word. 

"At  eleven,  twelve,  one,  two,  up  we  went,  with  a  fresh 
cup  of  hot  tea  every  time.  His  dor  was  lockt,  and  not  one 
sillibaly  could  we  git. 

"'  At  for  we  began  to  think  he'd  suasided  hisself ;  and 
having  called  in  the  policemen,  bust  open  the  dor. 

"  And  then  we  beheld  a  pretty  spactycle  !  Fancy  him 
in  his  gor,  his  throat  cut  from  hear  to  hear,  his  white  night- 
gownd  all  over  blood,  his  beautiful  face  all  pail  with  hagny  ! 
—  well,  no  such  thing.  Fancy  him  hanging  from  the  bed- 
post by  one  of  his  pore  dear  garters  !  —  well,  no  such  thing. 
Agin,  fancy  him  flung  out  of  the  window,  and  dasht  into 
ten  billium  peaces  on  the  minionet-potts  in  the  fust  floar ; 
or  else  a  naked,  melumcolly  corpse,  laying  on  the  hairy 
sjjikes  !  —  not  in  the  least.  He  wasn't  dead,  nor  he  wasn't 
the  least  unwell,  nor  he  wasn't  asleep  neither  —  he  only 
wasn't  there ;   and  from  that  day  we  have  heard  nothen 

*  Fivepence,  Mrs.  Barbara  means. 


A   PICTORIAL    RHAPSODY.  183 

about  him.      He   left   on   liis   talile   the  following  note  as 
follows :  — 

•■  •  Ut  June,  1840.     Midnigfit. 

"  '  Mrs.  Stokes,  —  I  am  attached  to  you  by  the  most  disinterested 
frlendsliip.  I  have  patronized  yonr  house  for  fourteen  years,  and  it 
was  my  intention  to  have  paid  you  a  part  of  your  bill,  but  the  Morn- 
ing Post  newspaper  has  destroyed  that  blessed  hope  forever. 

"'Before  you  receive  this  I  shall  be  —  ask  not  where:  my  mind 
shudders  to  think  where  !  You  will  carry  the  papers  diiecied  to 
Kegent  .Street  to  tbat  address,  and  perhaps  you  will  receive  in  return 
a  handsome  sum  of  money  ;  biU  if  the  Imd  of  my  youth  is  blighted, 
the  promise  of  a  long  and  happy  career  suddenly  and  cruelly  cut 
short,  an  affectionate  family  deprived  of  its  support  and  ornament, 
say  that  the  Morning  Post  has  done  this  by  its  savage  criticisms  upon 
me,  the  last  this  day. 

"  'Farewell.' 

"This  is  hall  he  said.  From  that  day  to  this  we  have 
never  seen  the  poor  fellow  —  we  have  never  heerd  of  him 
—  we  have  never  known  any  think  about  him.  Being 
halarmed,  IMrs.  Stoks  hadvertized  him  in  the  papers ; 
but  not  wishing  to  vex  his  family,  we  called  him  by  an- 
other name,  and  put  hour  address  diffrent  too.  Hall  was 
of  no  use  ;  and  1  can't  tell  you  what  a  pang  I  felt  in  my 
busum  when,  on  going  to  get  change  for  the  tive-pound 
notes  he'd  given  me  at  the  public-house  in  Hoxford  Street, 
the  lan'lord  laft  when  he  saw  them  ;  and  said,  says  he,  '  Do 
3'ou  know,  Mrs.  Barbara,  that  a  queer  gent  came  in  here 
with  five  sovrings  one  day.  has  a  glass  of  hale,  and  haskes 
me  to  change  his  sovrings  for  a  note  ?  which  I  did.  Then 
in  about  two  hours  he  came  back  with  five  more  sovrings, 
gets  another  note  and  another  glass  of  hale,  and  so  goes  on 
four  times  in  one  blessed  day  !  It's  my  beleaf  that  he  had 
only  five  pound,  and  wanted  you  to  suppose  that  he  was 
worth  twenty,  for  you've  got  all  his  notes,  I  see  ! ' 

"  And  so  the  poor  fellow  had  no  money  with  him  after 
all !  I  do  pity  him,  I  do,  from  my  hart;  and  I  do  hate  that 
wicked  Morning  Post  for  so  treating  such  a  kind,  sweet, 
good-nater'd  gentleman ! 

{Signed)     "Barbara. 

"Morlaxd's  Hotel:  \h  Jev:in,  1840." 

This  is  conclusive.  Our  departed  friend  had  many  faults, 
but  he  is  gone,  and  we  will  not  discuss  them  now.  It  ap- 
pears that,  on  the  1st  of  June,  the  Morning  Post  published 
a  criticism  upon  him,  accusing  him  of  ignorance,  bad  taste, 


184     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


and  gross  partiality.  His  gentle  and  susceptible  spirit 
could  not  brook  the  rebuke ;  he  was  not  angry ;  he  did  not 
retort ;  but  his  heart  broke! 

Peace  to  his  ashes  !  A  couple  of  volumes  of  his  works, 
we  see  by  our  advertisements,  are  about  immediately  to 
appear. 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  185 


ON   MEN   AND   PICTURES. 

A    PROPOS    OF    A    WALK    IN    THE    LOUVRE. 
{Frasefs  Magazine,  July,  1841.] 

Paris,  June,  1841. 

Tx  the  days  of  my  youth  I  knew  a  young  fellow  that  I 
shall  here  call  Tidbody,  and  who,  born  in  a  jirovincial  town 
of  respectable  parents,  had  been  considered  by  the  drawing- 
master  of  the  place,  and,  indeed,  b}'  the  principal  tea-parties 
there,  as  a  great  genius  in  the  painting  line,  and  one  that 
was  sure  to  make  his  fortune. 

When  he  had  made  portraits  of  his  grandmother,  of  the 
house-dog,  of  the  door-knocker,  of  the  church  and  parson 
of  the  place,  and  liad  copied,  tant  hicii  que  mal,  most  of  the 
prints  that  were  to  be  found  in  the  various  houses  of  the 
village,  Harry  Tidbod}'  was  voted  to  be  very  nearly  perfect ; 
and  his  honest  parents  laid  out  their  little  savings  in  send- 
ing the  lad  to  Rome  and  Paris. 

I  saw  him  in  the  latter  town  in  the  year  '32,  before  an 
immense  easel,  perched  upon  a  liigh  stool,  and  copying  with 
perfect  complacency  a  Correggio  in  the  gallery,  which  he 
thought  he  had  imitated  to  a  nicet}-.  No  misgivings  ever 
entered  into  the  man's  mind  that  he  was  making  an  ass  of 
himself ;  he  never  once  paused  to  consider  that  his  copy 
was  as  mucli  like  the  Correggio  as  my  nose  is  like  the 
Apollo's.  But  he  rose  early  of  mornings,  and  scrubbed 
away  all  day  with  his  megilps  and  varnishes ;  he  worked 
away  through  cold  and  through  sunshine ;  when  other  men 
were  warming  their  lingers  at  the  stoves,  or  wisely  loung- 
ing on  the  Boulevard,  he  worked  away,  and  thought  he  was 
cultivating  art  in  the  purest  fashion,  and  smiled  with  easy 
scorn  upon  those  who  took  the  world  more  easily  than  he. 
Tidbody  drank  water  with  his  meals  —  if  meals  those 
miserable  scraps  of  bread  and  cheese,  or  bread  and  sausage, 
could  be  called  which  he  lined  his  lean  stomach  with ;  and 
voted  those  persons  godless  gluttons  who  recreated  them- 
selves with  brandy  and  beef.     He  rose  up  at  daybreak,  and 


186     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

worked  away  with  bladder  and  brush ;  he  passed  all  night 
at  life-academies,  designing  life-guardsmen  with  chalk  and 
stump ;  he  never  Avas  known  to  take  any  other  recreation  ; 
and  in  ten  years  he  had  spent  as  much  time  over  his  draw- 
ing as  another  man  spends  in  thirty.  At  the  end  of  his 
second  year  of  academical  studies  Harry  Tidbody  could 
draw  exactly  as  well  as  he  could  eight  years  after.  He  had 
visited  Florence,  and  Rome,  and  Venice,  in  the  interval; 
but  there  he  was  as  he  had  begun,  without  one  single  far- 
ther idea,  and  not  an  inch  nearer  the  goal  at  which  he 
aimed. 

One  day  at  the  Life-academy  in  Saint  Martin's  Lane,  I 
saw  before  me  the  back  of  a  shock  head  of  hair  and  a  pair 
of  ragged  elbows,  belonging  to  a  man  in  a  certain  pompous 
attitude  which  I  thought  I  recognized;  and  when  the 
model  retired  behind  the  curtain  to  take  his  ten  minutes' 
repose,  the  man  belonging  to  the  back  in  question  turned 
round  a  little,  and  took  out  an  old  snuffy  cotton  handker- 
chief, and  wiped  his  forehead  and  lank  cheek-bones,  that 
were  moist  with  the  vast  mental  and  bodily  exertions  of 
the  night.  Harry  Tidbody  was  the  man  in  question.  In 
ten  years  he  had  spent  at  least  three  thousand  nights  in 
copying  the  model.  When  abroad,  perhaps,  he  had  passed 
the  Sunday  evenings  too  in  the  same  rigorous  and  dismal 
pastime.  He  had  piles  upon  piles  of  gray  paper  at  his 
lodgings,  covered  with  worthless  nudities  in  black  and 
white  chalk. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  we  shook  hands,  and  I  asked 
him  how  the  arts  flourished.  The  poor  fellow,  with  a  kind 
of  dismal  humor  that  formed  a  part  of  his  character, 
twirled  round  upon  the  iron  heels  of  his  old  patched 
Blucher  boots,  and  showed  me  his  figure  for  answer. 
Such  a  lean,  long,  ragged,  fantastical-looking  personage, 
it  would  be  hard  to  match  out  of  the  drawing-schools. 

"  Tit,  my  boy,"  said  he,  when  he  had  finished  his  pirou- 
ette, "  you  may  see  that  the  arts  have  not  fattened  me  as 
yet;  and,  between  ourselves,  I  make  by  my  profession 
something  considerably  less  than  a  thousand  a  year.  But, 
mind  you,  I  am  not  discouraged ;  my  whole  soul  is  in  my 
calling ;  I  can't  do  anything  else  if  I  would ;  and  I  will  be 
a  painter,  or  die  in  the  attempt." 

Tidbody  is  not  dead,  I  am  happy  to  say,  but  has  a  snug 
place  in  the  Excise  of  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  now  only 
exercises  the  pencil  as  an  amateur.     If  his  story  has  been 


Oy   MES  AXD  PICTURES.  187 

told  here  at  some  length,  the  ingenious  reader  ma}'  fancy 
that  there  is  some  reason  for  it.  In  the  first  place,  there 
is  so  little  to  say  about  the  present  exhibition  at  Paris 
that  your  humble  servant  does  not  know  how  to  fill  his 
pages  without  some  digressions  ;  and,  secondly,  the  Tid- 
bodian  episode  has  a  certain  moral  in  it,  without  which  it 
cever  would  have  been  related,  and  which  is  good  for  all 
artists  to  read. 

It  came  to  my  mind  upon  examining  a  picture  of  sixty 
feet  by  forty  (indeed,  it  cannot  be  much  smaller),  which 
takes  up  a  good  deal  of  space  in  the  large  room  of  the 
Louvre.  But  of  this  jDicture  anon.  Let  us  come  to  the 
general  considerations. 

Why  the  deuce  will  men  make  light  of  that  golden  gift 
of  mediocrity  which  for  the  most  part  they  possess,  and 
strive  so  absurdly  at  the  sublime  ?  What  is  it  that  makes 
a  fortune  in  this  world  but  energetic  mediocrity  ?  What 
is  it  that  is  so  respected  and  prosperous  as  good,  honest, 
emphatic,  blundering  dulness,  bellowing  commonplaces 
with  its  grtMt,  healthy  lungs,  kicking  and  struggling  with 
its  big  feet  and  fists,  and  bringing  an  awe-stricken  public 
down  on  its  knees  before  it  ?  Think,  my  good  sir,  of  the 
people  who  occupy  your  attention  and  the  world's.  Who 
are  they  ?  Upon  your  honor  and  conscience  now,  are  they 
not  persons  with  thews  and  sinews  like  your  own,  only 
they  use  them  with  somewhat  more  activity  —  with  a  voice 
like  yours,  only  they  shout  a  little  louder  —  with  the  aver- 
age portion  of  brains,  in  fact,  but  working  them  more  ? 
But  this  kind  of  disbelief  in  heroes  is  very  offensive  to  the 
world,  it  must  be  confessed.  There,  now,  is  the  Times 
newspaper,  which  the  other  day  rated  your  humble  servant 
for  publishing  an  account  of  one  of  the  great  humbugs  of 
modern  days,  viz.  the  late  funeral  of  Napoleon  —  which 
rated  me,  I  say,  and  talked  in  its  own  grave  roaring  way 
about  the  flippancy  and  conceit  of  Titmarsh. 

0  you  thundering  old  Times  !  Xapoleon's  funeral  was  a 
humbug,  and  3'our  constant  reader  said  so.  The  people  en- 
gaged in  it  were  humbugs,  and  this  your  ]\Iichael  Angelo 
hinted  at.  There  may  be  irreverence  in  this,  and  the 
process  of  humbug-hunting  may  end  rather  awkwardly  for 
some  people.  But  surely  there  is  no  conceit.  The  sham- 
ming of  modesty  is  the  most  pert  conceit  of  all,  the  ])re- 
eieuse  affectation  of  deference  where  you  don't  feel  it,  the 
sneaking  acquiescence  in  lies.     It  is  very  hard  that  a  man 


188     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

may  not  tell  the  truth  as  he  fancies  it^  without  being  ac- 
cused of  conceit :  but  so  the  world  wags.  As  has  already 
been  prettily  shown  in  that  before-mentioned  little  book 
about  Napoleon  ( that  is  still  to  be  had  of  the  publishers  ), 
there  is  a  ballad  in  the  volume,  which,  if  properly  studied, 
will  be  alone  worth  two  and  sixpence  to  any  man. 

Well,  the  funeral  of  Napoleon  ivas  a  humbug ;  and,  being 
so,  what  was  a  man  to  call  it  ?  What  do  we  call  a  rose  ? 
Is  it  disrespectful  to  the  pretty  flower  to  call  it  by  its  own 
innocent  name  ?  And,  in  like  manner,  are  we  bound,  out 
of  respect  for  society,  to  speak  of  humbug  only  in  a. cir- 
cumlocutory way  —  to  call  it  something  else,  as  they  say 
some  Indian  people  do  their  devil  —  to  wrap  it  up  in  riddles 
and  charades  ?  Nothing  is  easier.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
following  couple  of  sonnets  on  the  subject :  — 

The  glad  spring  sun  shone  yesterday,  as  Mr. 
M.  Titmarsh  wandered  with  his  favorite  lassie 
By  silver  Seine,  among  the  meadows  grassy  — 

Meadows,  like  mail-coach  guards  new  clad  at  Easter. 
Fair  was  the  sight  'twixt  Neuilly  and  Passy  ; 

And  green  the  field,  and  bright  the  river's  glister. 

The  birds  sang  salutations  to  the  spring; 

Already  buds  and  leaves  from  brandies  burst: 

"  The  surly  winter  time  hath  done  its  worst," 
Said  Michael;  "  Lo,  the  bees  are  on  the  wing!  " 
Then  on  the  ground  his  lazy  limbs  did  fling. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  passed  by  him  with  my  first. 
My  second  dare  I  to  your  notice  bring. 

Or  name  to  delicate  ears  that  animal  accurst  ? 

To  all  our  earthly  family  of  fools 

3Iy  whole,  resistless  despot,  gives  the  law  — 

Humble  and  great,  we  kneel  to  it  with  awe; 
O'er  camp  and  court,  the  senate  and  the  schools, 
Our  grand  invisible  Lama  sits  and  rules, 

By  ministers  that  are  its  men  of  straw. 
Sir  Robert  utters  it  in  place  of  wit, 

And  straight  the  Opposition  shouts  "  Hear,  hear  !  " 

And,  oh  !  but  all  the  Whiggish  benches  cheer 
AVhen  great  Lord  John  retorts  it,  as  is  fit. 

In  you,  my  Press  *  each  day  throughout  the  year, 
On  vast  broad  sheets  we  find  its  praises  writ. 

O  wondrous  are  tlie  columns  that  you  rear. 
And  sweet  the  morning  hymns  you  roar  in  praise  of  it  ! 

*The  reader  can  easily  accommodate  this  line  to  the  name  of  his  favor- 
ite paper.     Thus:  — 

"  In  you,  my  |    p^^f^'   \  each  day  throughout  the  year." 


Oy   MEX  AND  PICTURES.  189 

Sacred  word !  it  is  kept  out  of  the  dictionaries,  as  if  the 
great  compilers  of  those  publications  were  afraid  to  utter 
it.  Well,  then,  the  funeral  of  Xapoleon  was  a  humbug,  as 
Titmarsh  wrote;  and  a  still  better  proof  that  it  was  a 
humbug  was  this,  that  nobody  bought  Titmarsh's  book, 
and  of  the  10,000  copies  made  ready  by  the  publisher  not 
above  3,000  went  off.  It  was  a  humbug,  and  an  exploded 
humbug.  Peace  be  to  it!  Farlons  d'autres  choses;  and 
let  us  begin  to  discourse  about  the  pictures  without  further 
shilly-shally. 

I  must  confess,  with  a  great  deal  of  shame,  that  I  love 
to  go  to  the  picture  gallery  of  a  Sunday  after  church,  on 
purpose  to  see  the  thousand  happy  people  of  the  working 
sort  amusing  themselves  —  not  very  wickedly,  as  I  fancy  — 
on  the  only  day  in  the  week  on  which  they  have  their  free- 
dom. Genteel  people,  who  can  amuse  themselves  every 
day  throughout  the  year,  do  not  frequent  the  Louvre  on  a 
Sunday.  You  can't  see  the  pictures  well,  and  are  pushed 
and  elbowed  by  all  sorts  of  low-bred  creatures.  Yesterday 
there  were  at  the  very  least  two  hundred  common  soldiers 
in  the  place  —  little  vulgar  ruffians,  with  red  breeches  and 
three-halfpence  a  day,  examining  the  pictures  in  company 
with  fifteen  hundred  grisettes,  two  thousand  liberated  shop- 
boys,  eighteen  liundred  and  forty-one  artist-apprentices, 
half  a  dozen  of  livery  servants,  and  many  scores  of  fellows 
with  caps,  and  jackets,  and  copper-colored  countenances,  and 
gold  earrings,  and  large  ugly  hands,  that  are  hammering  or 
weaving  or  filing  all  the  week.  Fl  done!  what  a  thing  it  is 
to  have  a  taste  for  low  company !  Every  man  of  decent 
breeding  ouglit  to  have  been  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  in 
white  kid  gloves  and  on  horseback,  or  on  hackback  at  least. 
How  the  dandies  just  now  went  prancing  and  curvetting 
down  the  Champs  Elysees,  making  their  horses  jump  as 
they  passed  the  carriages,  with  their  japanned  boots  glitter- 
ing in  the  sunshine ! 

The  fountains  were  flashing  and  foaming,  as  if  they,  too, 


Or:  — 

Or,  in  France :  — 


'In  you,  my  {  -^^l^j,^'  }  daily  through  the  year." 


"  In  you,  my  GaUgnani^s  Messeyigere  ;  " 

a  capital  paper,  because  you  have  there  the  very  cream  of  all  the  others. 
In  the  last  line,  for  "morning"  you  can  read  ''evening,"  or  "  weekly," 
as  circumstances  prompt. 


190      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

were  in  their  best  for  Sunday  ;  the  trees  are  covered  all 
over  with  little  twinkling  bright  green  sprouts ;  number- 
less exhibitions  of  Punch  and  the  Fantoccini  are  going  on 
beneath  them ;  and  jugglers  and  balancers  are  entertaining 
the  people  with  their  pranks.  I  met  two  fellows  the  other 
day,  one  with  a  barrel-organ,  and  the  other  with  a  beard,  a 
turban,  a  red  jacket,  and  a  pair  of  dirty,  short,  spangled^ 
white  trousers,  who  were  cursing  each  other  in  the  purest 
Saint  Giles's  English;  and  if  I  had  had  impudence  or  gen- 
erosity enough,  I  should  have  liked  to  make  up  their  quar- 
rel over  a  chopiii  of  Strasburg  beer,  and  hear  the  histories 
of  either.  Think  of  these  fellows  quitting  our  beloved 
country,  and  their  homes  in  some  calm  nook  of  Field  Lane 
or  Seven  Dials,  and  toiling  over  to  France  with  their  music 
and  their  juggling-traps,  to  balance  cart-wheels  and  swal- 
low knives  for  the  amusement  of  our  natural  enemies ! 
They  are  very  likely  at  work  at  this  blessed  minute,  with 
grinning  bonnes  and  conscripts  staring  at  their  skill.  It  is 
pleasant  to  walk  by  and  see  the  nurses  and  the  children  so 
uproariously  happy.  Yonder  is  one  who  has  got  a  half- 
penny to  give  to  the  beggar  at  the  crossing ;  several  are 
riding  gravely  in  little  carriages  drawn  by  goats.  Ah, 
truly,  the  sunshine  is  a  fine  thing;  and  one  loves  to  see 
the  little  people  and  the  poor  basking  in  it,  as  well  as  the 
great  in  their  fine  carriages,  or  their  prancing  cock-tailed 
horses. 

In  the  midst  of  sights  of  this  kind,  you  pass  on  a  fine 
Sunday  afternoon  down  the  Elysian  Fields  and  the  Tuile- 
ries,  until  you  reach  the  before-mentioned  low-bred  crowd 
rushing  into  the  Louvre. 

Well,  then,  the  pictures  of  this  exhibition  are  to  be 
numbered  by  thousands,  and  these  thousands  contain  the 
ordinary  number  of  chefs  d'muvre  ;  that  is  to  say,  there  may 
be  a  couple  of  works  of  genius,  half  a  dozen  very  clever 
performances,  a  hundred  or  so  of  good  ones,  fifteen  hun- 
dred very  decent,  good,  or  bad  pictures,  and  the  remainder 
atrocious.  What  a  comfort  it  is,  as  I  have  often  thought, 
that  they  are  not  all  masterpieces,  and  that  there  is  a  good 
stock  of  mediocrity  in  this  world,  and  that  we  only  light 
upon  genius  now  and  then,  at  rare  angel  intervals,  handed 
round  like  tokay  at  dessert,  in  a  few  houses,  and  in  very 
small  quantities  only  !  Fancy  how  sick  one  would  grow  of 
it,  if  one  had  no  other  drink. 

Now,  in  this  exhibition   there   are,  of  course,  a  certain 


Oy   MEN  AND   PICTURES.  191 

number  of  persons  who  make  believe  that  they  are  hand- 
ing you  round  tokay  —  giving  you  the  real  imperial  stuff, 
with  the  seal  of  genius  stamped  on  the  cork.  There  are 
numbers  of  ambitious  pictures,  in  other  words,  chiefly  upon 
sacred  subjects,  and  in  what  is  called  a  severe  style  of  art. 

The  severe  style  of  art  consists  in  drawing  3-our  ligures 
in  the  first  place  very  big  and  very  neat,  in  which  there  is 
no  harm  ;  and  in  dressing  them  chiefly  in  stiff,  crisp,  old- 
fashioned  draperies,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  illuminated 
missals  and  the  old  masters.  The  old  masters,  no  doubt, 
copied  the  habits  of  the  people  about  them  ;  and  it  has 
always  appeared  as  absurd  to  me  to  imitate  these  antique 
costumes,  and  to  dress  up  saints  and  virgins  after  the  fash- 
ion of  the  fifteenth  century,  as  it  would  be  to  adorn  them 
with  hoops  and  red  heels  such  as  our  grandmothers  wore  ; 
and  to  make  a  ^lagdalen,  for  instance,  taking  off  her 
patches,  or  an  angel  in  powder  and  a  hoop. 

It  is,  or  used  to  be,  the  custom  at  the  theatres  for  the 
gravedigger  in  "Hamlet"  always  to  wear  fifteen  or  sixteen 
waistcoats,  of  which  he  leisurely  divested  himself,  the 
audience  roaring  at  each  change  of  raiment.  Do  the  Den- 
mark gravediggers  always  wear  fifteen  waistcoats  ?  Let 
anybody  answer  who  has  visited  the  country.  But  the 
probability  is  that  the  custom  on  the  stage  is  a  very 
ancient  one,  and  that  the  public  would  not  be  satisfied 
at  a  departure  from  the  legend.  As  in  the  matter  of  grave- 
diggers,  so  it  is  with  angels  :  they  have  —  and  Heaven 
knows  why  —  a  regular  costume,  which  every  "serious" 
painter  follows  ;  and  which  has  a  great  deal  more  to  do 
with  serious  art  than  people  at  first  may  imagine.  They 
have  large  white  wings,  that  fill  up  a  quarter  of  the  picture 
in  which  they  have  the  good  fortune  to  be  ;  they  have 
white  gowns  that  fall  round  their  feet  in  pretty  fantastical 
draperies  ;  they  have  fillets  round  their  brows,  and  their 
hair  combed  and  neatly  pomatumed  down  the  middle  ;  and 
if  they  have  not  a  sword,  have  an  elegant  portable  harp  of 
a  certain  angelic  shape.  Large  rims  of  gold  leaf  they  have 
round  their  heads  always,  —  a  pretty  business  it  would  be 
if  such  adjuncts  were  to  be  left  out. 

Now,  suppose  the  legend  ordered  that  every  gravedigger 
should  be  represented  with  a  gold-leaf  halo  round  his  head, 
and  eveiy  angel  with  fifteen  waistcoats,  artists  would  have 
followed  serious  art  just  as  they  do  now  most  probably,  and 
looked  with  scorn  at  the  miserable  creature  who  ventured 


192      CRITICISMS  IN   LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

to  scoff  at  the  waistcoats.  Ten  to  one  but  a  certain  news- 
paper would  have  called  a  man  flippant  who  did  not  respect 
the  waistcoats  —  would  have  said  that  he  was  irreverent 
for  not  worshipping  the  waistcoats.*  But  why  talk  of  it  ? 
The  fact  is  I  have  rather  a  desire  to  set  up  for  a  martyr, 
like  my  neighbors  in  the  literary  trade  :  it  is  not  a  little 
comforting  to  undergo  such  persecutions  courageously.  "  0 
Socrate  !  je  boirai  la  eigne  avec  toi ! "  as  David  said  to 
Kobespierre.  You  too  were  accused  of  blasphemy  in  your 
time  ;  and  the  world  has  been  treating  us  poor  literary 
gents  in  the  same  way  ever  since.     There,  now,  is  Bulw — 

But  to  return  to  the  painters.  In  the  matter  of  canvas 
covering  the  French  artists  are  a  great  deal  more  audacious 
than  ours  ;  and  I  have  known  a  man  stpvrve  all  the  winter 
through,  without  fire  and  without  beef,  in  order  that  he 
might  have  the  honor  of  filling  live  and  twenty  feet  square 
of  canvas  with  some  favorite  subject  of  his. 

It  is  curious  to  look  through  the  collection,  and  see  how 
for  the  most  part  the  men  draw  their  ideas.  There  are 
caricatures  of  the  late  and  early  style  of  Kaphael ;  there 
are  caricatures  of  Masaccio  ;  there  is  a  picture  painted  in 
the  very  pyramidical  form,  and  in  the  manner  of  Andrea 
del  Sarto ;  there  is  a  Holy  Family,  the  exact  counterpart  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  and,  finally,  there  is  Achille  Deveria 
—  it  is  no  use  to  give  the  names  and  numbers  of  the  other 
artists,  who  are  not  known  in  England  —  there  is  Achille 
Deveria,  w^ho,  having  nothing  else  to  caricature,  has  carica- 
tured a  painted  window,  and  designed  a  Charity,  of  which 
all  the  outlines  are  half  an  inch  thick. 

Then  there  are  numberless  caricatures  in  color  as  in  form. 
There  is  a  violet  Entombment  —  a  crimson  one,  a  green 
one  ;  a  light  emerald  and  gamboge  Eve  ;  all  huge  pictures, 
with  talent  enough  in  their  composition,  but  remarkable  for 
this  strange  mad  love  of  extravagance,  which  belongs  to  the 
nation.  Titian  and  the  Venetians  have  loved  to  x^aint  lurid 
skies  and  sunsets  of  purple  and  gold  :  here,  in  consequence, 
is  a  piebald  picture  of  crimson  and  yellow,  laid  on  in  streaks 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom. 

Who  has  not  heard  a  great,  comfortable,  big-chested  man, 
with  bands  round  a  sleek  double  chin,  and  fat  white  cush- 

*  Last  year,  when  our  friend  published  some  article  in  this  Magazine, 
he  seemed  to  be  agitated  almost  to  madness  by  a  criticism,  and  a  very 
just  one  too,  which  appeared  in  the  Morning  Post.  At  present  he  is  sim- 
ilarly affected  by  some  strictures  on  a  defunct  work  of  his.  —  O.  Y. 


ON  MEX  AND  PICTURES.  193 

ion  squeezers  of  hands,  and  large  red  whiskers,  and  a  soft 
roaring  voice,  the  delight  of  a  congregation,  preaching  for 
an  hour  with  all  the  appearance  and  twice  the  emphasis  of 
piety,  and  leading  audiences  captive  ?  And  who  has  not 
seen  a  humble  individual,  who  is  quite  confused  to  be  con- 
ducted down  the  aisle  by  the  big  beadle  with  his  silver 
staff  (the  stalwart  ''  drum-major  ecclesiastic '') ;  and  when 
in  his  pulpit,  saying  his  say  in  the  simplest  manner  possi- 
ble, uttering  what  are  very  likely  commonplaces,  without  a 
single  rhetorical  grace  or  emphasis  ? 

The  great,  comfortable,  red-whiskered,  roaring  cushion- 
thumper  is  most  probably  the  favorite  with  the  public. 
But  there  are  some  persons  who,  nevertheless,  prefer  to 
listen  to  the  man  of  timid  mild  commonplaces,  because  the 
simple  words  he  speaks  come  from  his  heart,  and  so  find  a 
way  directly  to  yours  ;  where,  if  perhaps  you  can't  find 
belief  for  them,  you  still  are  sure  to  receive  them  with 
respect  and  sympathy. 

There  are  many  such  professors  at  the  easel  as  well  as 
the  pulpit ;  and  you  see  many  painters  with  a  great  vigor 
and  dexterity,  and  no  sincerity  of  heart ;  some  with  little 
dexterity,  but  plenty  of  sincerity ;  some  one  or  two  in  a 
million  wlio  have  both  these  qualities,  and  thus  become 
the  great  men  of  their  art.  I  think  there  are  instances  of 
the  two  former  kinds  in  this  present  exhibition  of  the 
Louvre.  There  are  fellows  who  have  covered  great  swag- 
gering canvases  with  all  the  attitudes  and  externals  of 
piety ;  and  some  few  whose  humble  pictures  cause  no  stir, 
and  remain  in  quiet  nooks,  where  one  finds  them,  and 
straightway  acknowledges  the  simple  kindly  appeal  which 
they  make. 

Of  such  an  order  is  the  picture  entitled  ''  La  Priere,''  by 
Monsieur  Trimolet.  A  man  and  his  wife  are  kneeling  at 
an  old-fashioned  praying-desk,  and  the  woman  clasps  a 
little  sickly-looking  child  in  her  arms,  and  all  three  are 
praying  as  earnestly  as  their  simple  hearts  will  let  them. 
The  man  is  a  limner,  or  painter  of  missals,  by  trade,  as  we 
fancy.  One  of  his  works  lies  upon  the  praying-desk,  and 
it  is  evident  that  he  can  paint  no  more  that  day,  for  the 
sun  is  just  set  behind  the  old-fashioned  roofs  of  the  houses 
in  the  narrow  street  of  the  old  city  where  he  lives.  Indeed, 
I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in  looking  at  this  little 
quiet  painting,  and  in  the  course  of  half  a  dozen  visits  that 
I  have  paid  to  it,  have  become  perfectly  acquainted  with 


194      CRITICISMS    IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

all  the  circumstances  of  the  life  of  the  honest  missal  illu- 
minator and  his  wife,  here  praying  at  the  end  of  their  day's 
work  in  the  calm  summer  evening. 

Very  likely  IMonsieur  Trimolet  has  quite  a  different  his- 
tory for  his  little  personages,  and  so  has  everybody  else 
who  examines  the  picture.  But  what  of  that  ?  There  is 
the  privilege  of  pictures.  A  man  does  not  know  all  that 
lies  in  his  picture,  any  more  than  he  understands  all  the 
character  of  his  children.  Directly  one  or  the  other  makes 
its  appearance  in  the  world,  it  has  its  own  private  exist- 
ence, independent  of  the  progenitor.  And  in  respect  of 
works  of  art,  if  the  same  piece  inspire  one  man  with  joy 
that  fills  another  with  compassion,  what  are  we  to  say  of  it, 
but  that  it  has  sundry  properties  of  its  own  which  its 
author  even  does  not  understand  ?  The  fact  is,  pictures 
"  are  as  they  seem  to  all,"  as  Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson  sings  in 
the  first  volume  of  his  poems. 

Some  of  this  character  of  holiness  and  devotion  that  I 
fancy  I  see  in  Monsieur  Trimolet's  pictures  is  likewise 
observable  in  a  piece  by  Madame  Juillerat,  representing 
Saint  Elizabeth  of  Hungary  leading  a  little  beggar-boy  into 
her  house,  where  the  holy  dame  of  Hungary  will,  no  doubt, 
make  him  comfortable  with  a  good  plate  of  victuals.  A 
couple  of  young  ladies  follow  behind  the  princess,  with  de- 
mure looks,  and  garlands  in  their  hair,  that  hangs  straight  on 
their  shoulders,  as  one  sees  it  in  the  old  illuminations.  The 
whole  picture  has  a  pleasant,  mystic,  innocent  look  ;  and 
one  is  all  the  better  for  regarding  it.  AVhat  a  fine  instinct 
or  taste  it  was  in  the  old  missal  illuminators  to  be  so  par- 
ticular in  the  painting  of  the  minor  parts  of  their  pictures  ! 
the  precise  manner  m  which  the  flowers  and  leaves,  birds 
and  branches,  are  painted,  gives  an  air  of  truth  and  sim- 
plicity to  the  whole  performance,  and  makes  nature,  as  it 
were,  an  accomplice  and  actor  in  the  scene  going  on.  For 
instance,  you  may  look  at  a  landscape  with  certain  feelings 
of  j)leasure  ;  but  if  you  have  pulled  a  rose,  and  are  smell- 
ing it,  and  if  of  a  sudden  a  blackbird  in  a  bush  hard  by 
begins  to  sing  and  chirrup,  your  feeling  of  pleasure  is  very 
much  enhanced  most  likely ;  the  senses  with  which  you 
examine  the  scene  become  brightened  as  it  were,  and  the 
scene  itself  becomes  more  agreeable  to  you.  It  is  not  the 
same  place  as  it  was  before  you  smelt  the  rose,  or  before 
the  blackbird  began  to  sing.  Now,  in  Madame  Juillerat's 
picture  of  the  Saint  of  Hungary  and  the  hungry  boy,  if  the 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  195 

flowers  on  the  3'oung  ladies*  heads  had  been  omitted,  or  not 
painted  with  their  pleasing  minuteness  and  circumstantial- 
ity, I  fancy  that  the  effect  of  the  piece  would  have  been  by 
no  means  the  same.  Another  artist  of  the  mystical  school, 
Monsieur  Servan,  has  employed  the  same  adjuncts  in  a  sim- 
ilarly successful  manner.  One  of  his  pictures  represents 
Saint  Augustin  meditating  in  a  garden  ;  a  great  cluster  of 
rose-bushes,  hollyhocks,  and  other  plants  is  in  the  fore- 
ground, most  accurately  delineated  ;  and  a  fine  rich  land- 
scape and  river  stretch  behind  the  saint,  round  whom  the 
flowers  seem  to  keep  up  a  mysterious  waving  and  whisper- 
ing that  fill  one  with  a  sweet,  pleasing,  indescribable  kind 
of  awe  —  a  great  perfection  in  this  style  of  painting. 

In  Monsieur  Aguado's  gallery  there  is  an  early  Raphael 
(which  all  the  world  declares  to  be  a  copy,  but  no  matter). 
This  piece  only  represents  two  young  people  walking  hand- 
in-hand  in  a  garden,  and  looking  at  you  with  a  kind  of 
''solemn  mirth"  (the  expression  of  old  Sternhold  and 
Hopkins  has  always  struck  me  as  very  fine).  A  meadow 
is  behind  them,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a  cottage,  and  by 
which  flows  a  river,  environed  by  certain  very  prim-looking 
trees ;  and  that  is  all.  Well ;  it  is  impossible  for  any 
person  who  has  a  sentiment  for  the  art  to  look  at  this  pic- 
ture without  feeling  indescribably  moved  and  pleased  by 
it.  It  acts  upon  you  —  how  ?  How  does  a  beautiful, 
pious,  tender  air  of  ]\[ozart  act  upon  you  ?  What  is  there 
in  it  that  should  make  you  happy  and  gentle,  and  fill  you 
with  all  sorts  of  good  "^thoughts' and  kindly  feelings?  I 
fear  that  what  Dr.^Thumpcushion  says  at  church  is  correct, 
and  that  these  indulgences  are  only  carnal,  and  of  the  earth 
earthy ;  but  the  sensual  effort  in  this  case  carries  one 
quite*^  away  from  the  earth,  and  up  to  something  that  is 
very  like  heaven. 

Now  the  writer  of  this  has  already  been  severely  repre- 
hended for  saying  that  Raphael  at  thirty  had  lost  that  de- 
lightful innocence  and  purity  which  rendered  the  works  of 
Raphael  at  twenty  so  divine  ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  the 
critic's  fault,  and  not  the  painter's  (I'm  not  proud,  and  will 
allow  that  even  a  magazine  critic  may  be  mistaken).  Per- 
haps, by  the  greatest  stretch  of  the  perhaps,  it  may  be  that 
Raphael  was  every  whit  as  divine  at  thirty  as  at  eighteen ; 
and  that  the  very  quaintnesses  and  imperfections  of  manner 
observable  in  his  early  works  are  the  reason  why  they  ap- 
pear so  singularly  pleasing  to  me.     At  least  among  painters 


196      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

of  the  present  day,  I  feel  myself  more  disposed  to  recog- 
nize spiritual  beauties  in  those  whose  powers  of  execution 
are  manifestly  incomplete,  than  in  artists  whose  hands  are 
skilful  and  manner  formed.  Thus  there  are  scores  of  large 
pictures  here,  hanging  in  the  Louvre,  that  represent  sub- 
jects taken  from  Holy  Writ,  or  from  the  lives  of  the  saints, 
—  pictures  skilfully  enough  painted  and  intended  to  be 
religious,  that  have  not  the  slightest  effect  upon  me, 
no  more  than  Dr.  Thumpcushion's  loudest  and  glibbest 
sermon. 

Here  is  No,  1475,  for  instance  —  a  "  Holy  Pamily," 
painted  in  the  antique  manner,  and  with  all  the  accessories 
before  spoken  of,  viz.  large  flowers,  fresh  roses,  and  white 
stately  lilies ;  curling  tendrils  of  vines  forming  fantastical 
canopies  for  the  heads  of  the  sacred  personages,  and  rings 
of  gold-leaf  drawn  neatly  round  the  same.  Here  is  the 
Virgin,  with  long,  stiff,  prim  draperies  of  blue,  red,  and 
white  ;  and  old  Saint  Anne  in  a  sober  dress,  seated  gravely 
at  her  side ;  and  Saint  Joseph  in  a  becoming  attitude  ;  and 
all  very  cleverly  treated,  and  pleasing  to  the  eye.  But 
though  this  picture  is  twice  as  well  painted  as  any  of  those 
before  mentioned,  it  does  not  touch  my  heart  in  the  least ; 
nor  do  any  of  the  rest  of  the  sacred  pieces.  Opposite  the 
"Holy  Family  "  is  a  great  "Martyrdom  of  Poly  carp,"  and 
the  catalogue  tells  you  how  the  executioners  first  tried  to 
burn  the  saint ;  but  the  fire  went  out,  and  the  executioners 
were  knocked  down  ;  then  a  soldier  struck  the  saint  with  a 
sword,  and  so  killed  him.  The  legends  recount  numerous 
miracles  of  this  sort,  which  I  confess  have  not  any  very 
edifying  effect  upon  me.  Saints  are  clapped  into  boiling 
oil,  which  immediately  turns  cool ;  or  their  heads  are 
chopped  off,  and  their  blood  turns  to  milk;  and  so  on. 
One  can't  understand  why  these  continual  delays  and  dis- 
appointments take  place,  especially  as  the  martyr  is  always 
killed  at  the  end ;  so  that  it  would  be  best  at  once  to  put 
him  out  of  his  pain.  For  this  reason,  possibly,  the  execu- 
tion of  Saint  Polycarp  did  not  properly  affect  the  writer  of 
this  notice. 

Monsieur  Laemlein  has  a  good  picture  of  the  "  Waking 
of  Adam,"  so  royally  described  by  Milton,  a  picture  full  of 
gladness,  vigor,  and  sunshine.  There  is  a  very  fine  figure 
of  a  weeping  woman  in  a  picture  of  the  "Death  of  the 
Virgin ; "  and  the  Virgin  falling  in  Monsieur  Steuben's 
j)icture   of    "  Our    Saviour   going   to  Execution "    is   very 


ox   MEX   AXD   PICTURES.  197 

pathetic.  The  mention  of  this  gentleman  brings  us  to 
what  is  called  the  bourgeois  style  of  art,  of  which  he  is  one 
of  the  chief  professors.  He  excels  in  depicting  a  certain 
kind  of  sentiment,  and  in  the  vulgar,  which  is  often  too  the 
true,  pathetic. 

Steuben  has  painted  many  scores  of  Xapoleons  ;  and  his 
picture  of  Xapoleon  this  year  brings  numbers  of  admiring 
people  round  it.  The  Emperor  is  seated  on  a  sofa,  reading 
despatches ;  and  the  little  King  of  Rome,  in  a  white  muslin 
frock,  with  his  hair  beautifully  curled,  slumbers  on  his 
papa's  knee.  What  a  contrast !  The  conqueror  of  the 
world,  the  stern  warrior,  the  great  giver  of  laws  and  ruler 
of  nations,  he  dare  not  move  because  the  little  baby  is 
asleep ;  and  he  would  not  disturb  him  for  all  the  kingdoms 
he  knows  so  well  how  to  conquer.  This  is  not  art,  if  you 
please ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  see  fat  good-natured  mothers 
and  grandmothers  clustered  round  this  picture,  and  look- 
ing at  it  with  solemn  e3'es.  The  same  painter  has  an 
Esmeralda  dancing  and  frisking  in  her  night-gown,  and 
playing  the  tambourine  to  her  goat,  capering  likewise. 
This  picture  is  so  delightfully  bad,  the  little  gypsy  has 
such  a  killing  ogle,  that  all  the  world  admires  it.  Monsieur 
Steuben  should  send  it  to  London,  where  it  would  be  sure 
of  a  gigantic  success. 

Monsieur  Grenier  has  a  piece  much  looked  at,  in  the 
bourgeois  line.  Some  rogues  of  gypsies,  or  mountebanks, 
have  kidnapped  a  tine  fat  child,  and  are  stripping  it  of  its 
pretty  clothes ;  and  poor  baby  is  crying ;  and  the  gypsy- 
woman  holding  up  her  finger  and  threatening ;  and  the  he- 
mountebank  is  lying  on  a  bank,  smoking  his  pipe,  —  the 
callous  monster!  Preciously  they  will  ill-treat  that  dear 
little  darling,  if  justice  do  not  overtake  them,  —  if,  ay,  if. 
But,  thank  Heaven !  there  in  the  corner  come  the  police, 
and  they  will  have  that  pipe-smoking  scoundrel  off  to  the 
galleys  before  five  minutes  are  over. 

1056.  A  picture  of  the  galleys.  Two  galley-slaves  are 
before  you,  and  the  piece  is  called  "A  Crime  and  a  Fault." 
The  poor  ••  Fault "  is  sitting  on  a  stone,  looking  very  re- 
pentant and  unhappy  indeed.  The  great  '•  Crime  "  stands 
grinning  you  in  the  face,  smoking  his  pipe.  The  ruffian  ! 
That  pipe  seems  to  be  a  great  mark  of  callosity  in  ruffians. 
I  heard  one  man  whisper  to  another,  as  they  were  looking 
at  these  galley-slaves,  "  Thei/  o.re  portraits,^^  and  very  much 
affected  his  companion  seemed  by  the  information. 


198      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Of  a  similar  virtuous  interest  is  705,  by  Monsieur  Finart, 
''A  Family  of  African  Colonists  carried  off  by  Abd-el- 
Kader."  There  is  the  poor  male  colonist  without  a  single 
thing  on  but  a  rope  round  his  wrists.  His  silver  skin  is 
dabbled  with  his  golden  blood,  and  he  looks  up  to  heaven 
as  the  Arabs  are  poking  him  on  with  the  tips  of  their 
horrid  spears.  Behind  him  come  his  flocks  and  herds,  and 
other  members  of  his  family.  In  front,  principal  figure,  is 
his  angelic  wife  in  her  night-gown,  and  in  the  arms  of  an 
odious  blackamoor  on  horseback.  Poor  thing  —  poor  thing ! 
she  is  kicking,  and  struggling,  and  resisting,  as  hard  as  she 
possibly  can. 

485.     "  The  Two  Friends."     Debay. 

"  Deux  jeunes  femraes  se  donnent  le  gage  le  plus  saere  d'une  amitie 
sincere,  dans  un  acte  de  devoument  et  de  reconnaissance. 

"L'une  d'elles,  faible,  extenuee  d'efforts  inutileraent  tentes  pour 
allaiter,  decouvre  son  sein  tari,  cause  du  deperissement  de  son  enfant. 
Sa  douleur  est  comprise  par  son  amie,  a  qui  la  sante  permet^  d'ajouter 
au  bonheur  de  nourrir  son  propre  enfant,  celui  de  rappeler  a  la  vie  le 
fils  mourant  de  sa  compagne."* 

Monsieur's  Debay's  pictures  are  not  bad,  as  most  of  the 
others  here  mentioned  as  appertaining  to  the  bourgeois 
class ;  but,  good  or  bad,  I  can't  but  own  that  I  like  to  see 
these  honest  hearty  representations,  which  work  upon  good 
simple  feeling  in  a  good  downright  way ;  and  if  not  works 
of  art,  are  certainly  works  that  can  do  a  great  deal  of  good, 
and  make  honest  people  happy.  Who  is  the  man  that  de- 
spises melodramas  ?  I  swear  that  T.  P.  Cooke  is  a  benefac- 
tor to  mankind.  Away  with  him  who  has  no  stomach  for 
such  kind  of  entertainments,  where  vice  is  always  punished, 
where  virtue  always  meets  its  reward ;  where  Mrs.  James 
Vining  is  always  sure  to  be  made  comfortable  somewhere 
at  the  end  of  the  third  act ;  and  if  0.  Smith  is  lying  in 
agonies  of  death,  in  red  breeches,  on  the  front  of  the  stage, 
or  has  just  gone  off  in  a  flash  of  tire  down  one  of  the  traps, 
I  know  it  is  only  make-believe  on  his  part,  and  believe  him 
to  be  a  good  kind-hearted  fellow,  that  would  not  do  harm 
to  mortal !  So  much  for  pictures  of  the  serious  melo- 
dramatic sort. 

Monsieur  Biard,  whose  picture  of  the  "Slave-trade" 
made  so  much  noise  in  London  last  year  —  and  indeed  it  is 
as  tine  as  Hogarth  —  has  this  year  many  comic  pieces,  and 
a  series  representing  the  present  Majesty  of  France  when 
Duke  of  Orleans,  undergoing  various  perils  by  land  and  by 


ON  MEX  AND  PICTURES.  199 

water.  There  is  much  good  in  these  pieces  ;  but  I  mean 
no  disrespect  in  saying  I  like  the  comic  ones  best.  There 
is  one  entitled  "  Une  Distraction."  A  National  Guard  is 
amusing  himself  by  catching  flies.  You  can't  fail  to  laugh 
when  you  see  it.  There  is  '•'  Le  Gros  Peche,"  and  the  big- 
gest of  all  sins,  no  less  than  a  drum-major  confessing.  You 
can't  see  the  monster's  face,  which  the  painter  has  wisely 
hidden  behind  the  curtain,  as  be3-ond  the  reach  of  art ;  but 
you  see  the  priest's,  and  murder !  what  a  sin  it  must  be 
that  the  big  tambour  has  just  imparted  to  him  !  All  the 
French  critics  sneer  at  Biard,  as  they  do  at  Paul  de  Kock, 
for  not  being  artistical  enough  ;  but  I  do  not  thiuk  these 
gentlemen  need  mind  the  sneer;  they  have  the  millions 
with  them,  as  Feargus  O'Connor  says,  and  they  are  good 
judges,  after  all. 

A  great  comfort  it  is  to  think  that  there  is  a  reasonable 
prospect  that,  for  the  future,  very  few  more  battle-pieces 
will  be  painted.  They  have  used  up  all  the  victories,  and 
Versailles  is  almost  full.  So  this  year,  much  to  my  happi- 
ness, only  a  few  yards  of  warlike  canvas  are  exhibited  in 
place  of  the  furlongs  which  one  was  called  upon  to  ex- 
amine in  former  exhibitions.  One  retreat  from  Moscow  is 
there,  and  one  storming  of  El  Gibbet  or  El  Arish,  or  some 
such  place  in  Africa.  In  the  latter  picture,  you  see  a  thou- 
sand fellows  in  loose  red  j^antaloons,  rusliing  uj)  a  hill  with 
base  heathen  Turks  on  the  top,  who  are  iiring  off  guns,  cara- 
bines, and  other  pieces  of  ordnance,  at  tliem.  All  this  is 
very  well  painted  by  jNIonsieur  Bollange,  and  the  rush  of 
red  breeches  has  a  queer  and  pleasing  effect.  In  the  Rus- 
sian piece  you  have  frozen  men  and  cattle ;  mothers  embra- 
cing their  offspring ;  grenadiers  scowling  at  the  enemy,  and 
especially  one  fellow  standing  on  a  bank  with  his  bayonet 
placed  in  the  attitude  for  receiving  the  charge,  and  actually 
charged  by  a  whole  regiment  of  Cossacks,  —  a  complete 
pulk,  my  dear  madam,  coming  on  in  three  lines,  with  their 
lances  pointed  against  this  undaunted  warrior  of  France.  I 
belie  s'e  Monsieur  Thiers  sat  for  the  portrait,  or  else  the  edi- 
tor of  the  Courrier  Frangais, — the  two  men  in  this  belliger- 
ent nation  who  are  the  belligerentest.  A  jpropos  of  Thiers, 
the  Nouvelles  d  la  3Iahi  has  a  good  story  of  this  little  sham 
Napoleon.  When  the  second  son  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
was  born  (I  forget  his  Royal  Highness's  title),  news  was 
brought  to  Monsieur  Thiers.  He  was  told  the  Princess 
was  well,  and  asked  the  courier  who  brought  the  newSj 


200     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

'■^Comment  se  portait  le  Roi  de  Rome?^^  It  may  be  said, 
in  contidence,  that  there  is  not  a  single  word  of  truth  in 
the  story.  But  what  of  that  ?  Are  not  sham  stories  as 
good  as  real  ones  ?  Ask  Monsieur  Leullier  5  who,  in  spite 
of  all  that  has  been  said  and  written  upon  a  certain  sea- 
fight,  has  actually  this  year  come  forward  with  his 

1311.  ''  Heroisme  de  I'Equipage  du  Vaisseau  le  Vengeur, 
4  Juin,  1794." 

''  Apres  avoir  soiitenu  longtemps  im  combat  acharne  contre  trois 
vaisseaux  Anglais,  le  vaisseau  le  Vengeur  avait  perdu  la  moitie  de  son 
equipage,  le  reste  etait  blesse  pour  la  plupart;  le  second  capitaine  avait 
ete  coupe  en  deux  par  un  boulet;  le  vaisseau  etait  rase  par  le  feu  de 
I'ennemi,  sa  mature  abattue,  ses  flancs  cribles  par  les  boulets  etaient 
ouverts  de  toutes  parts  ;  sa  cale  se  remplissait  a  vue  d'oeil;  il  s'en- 
fon^ait  dans  la  mer.  Les  marins  qui  restent  sur  son  bord  servent  la 
battei'ie  basse  jusqu'a  ce  qu'elle  se  trouve  au  niveau  de  la  mer;  quand 
elle  va  disparaitre,  ils  s'elancent  dans  la  seconde,  oil  ils  repetent  la 
meme  manoeuvre;  celle-ci  engloutie,  ils  montent  sur  le  pout.  Un 
trongon  de  mat  d'artimon  restait  encore  debout;  leurs  pavilions  en 
lambeaux  y  sont  clones;  puis,  reunissant  instinctivenient  leurs 
volontes  en  une  seule  pensee,  ils  veulent  perir  avec  le  navire  qui  leur  a 
ete  confie.  Tons,  combattants,  blesses,  mourants  se  raniment:  un  cri 
immense  s'eleve,  repete  sur  toutes  les  parties  du  tillac:  Vive  la  Repub- 
lique !  Vive  la  France  !  .  .  .  Le  Vengeur  coule  ...  les  cris  conti- 
nuent;  tons  les  bras  sont  dresses  au  ciel,  et  ces  braves,  preferant  la  raort 
a  la  captivite,  emportent  triompbalement  leur  pavilion  dans  ce  glorieux 
tombeau."  — France  Maritime. 

I  think  Mr.  Thomas  Carlyle  is  in  the  occasional  habit  of 
calling  lies  Avind-bags.  This  wind-bag,  one  would  have 
thought,  exploded  last  year ;  but  no  such  thing.  You  canH 
sink  it,  do  what  you  will ;  it  always  comes  bouncing  up  to 
the  surface  again,  where  it  swims  and  bobs  about  gayly  for 
the  admiration  of  all.  This  lie  the  Frenchman  will  believe ; 
all  the  papers  talk  gravely  about  the  affair  of  the  "  Ven- 
geur," as  if  an  established  fact ;  and  I  heard  the  matter 
disposed  of  by  some  artists  the  other  day  in  a  very  satis- 
factory manner.  One  has  always  the  gratification,  in  all 
French  societies  where  the  matter  is  discussed,  of  telling 
the  real  story  (or  if  the  subject  be  not  discussed,  of  bring- 
ing the  conversation  round  to  it,  and  then  telling  the  real 
story) ;  one  has  always  this  gratification,  and  a  great, 
wicked,  delightful  one  it  is,  —  you  make  the  whole  com- 
pany uncomfortable  at  once ;  you  narrate  the  history  in  a 
calm,  good-humored,  dispassionate  tone  ;  and  as  you  pro* 
ceed,  you  see  the  different  personages  of  the  audience  look- 
ing uneasily  at  one  another,  and  bursting  out  occasionally 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  201 

with  a  ••  ^lais  cependant ;  •'  but  you  continue  your  tale 
with  perfect  suavity  of  manner,  and  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  you  have  stuck  a  dagger  into  the  heart  of 
every  single  person  using  it. 

Telling,  I  say,  this  story  to  some  artists  who  were  ex- 
amining Monsieur  Leullier's  picture,  and  I  trust  that  many 
scores  of  persons  besides  were  listening  to  the  conversation, 
one  of  them  replied  to  my  assertion,  that  Captain  Renau- 
din's  letters  were  extant,  and  that  the  whole  affair  was  a 
humbug,  in  the  following  way. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  the  sinking  of  the  '  Vengeur  '  is  an  es- 
tablished fact  of  h  istory.  It  is  completely  proved  by  the 
documents  of  the  time  ;  and  as  for  the  letters  of  Captain 
Renaudin  of  which  you  speak,  have  we  not  had  an  example 
the  other  day  of  some  pretended  letters  of  Louis  Philippe's 
which  were  published  in  a  newspaper  here  ?  And  what, 
sir,  were  those  letters  ?     Forgeries  !  " 

Q.  E.  D.  Everybody  said  sansculotte  was  right :  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that,  if  all  the  "  Vengeur's"  crew  could  rise 
from  the  dead,  and  that  English  cox  —  or  boat  —  swain, 
who  was  last  on  hoard  tile  ship*  of  which  he  and  his  com- 
rades had  possession,  and  had  to  swim  for  his  life,  could 
come  forward,  and  swear  to  the  real  story,  I  make  no  doubt 
that  the  Frenchmen  would  not  believe  it.  Only  one,  I 
know,  my  friend  Julius,  who,  ever  since  the  tale  has  been 
told  to  him,  has  been  crying  it  into  all  ears  and  in  all  socie- 
ties, and  vows  he  is  perfectly  hoarse  with  telling  it. 

As  for  Monsieur  Leullier's  picture,  there  is  really  a  great 
deal  of  good  in  it.  Fellows  embracing,  and  others  lifting 
up  hands  and  eyes  to  Heaven  ;  and  in  the  distance  an  Eng- 
lish ship,  with  the  crew  in  red  coats,  tiring  away  on  the 
doomed  vessel.  Possibly,  they  are  only  marines  whom  we 
see  ;  but  as  I  once  beheld  several  English  naval  officers  in 
a  play  habited  in  top-boots,  perhaps  the  legend  in  France 
may  be  that  the  nav}^,  like  the  army,  with  us,  is  capari- 
soned in  scarlet.  A  good  subject  for  another  historical 
picture  would  be  Cambronne,  saying,  "La  Garde  meurt, 
mais  ne  se  rend  pas.''  I  have  bought  a  couple  of  engrav- 
ings of  the  '•  Vengeur  "  and  Cambronne,  and  shall  be  glad 
to  make  a  little  historical  collection  of  facts  similarly 
authenticated. 

Accursed,  I  say,  be  all  uniform  coats  of  blue  or  of  red ; 

*  The  writer  heard  of  this  man  from  an  English  captain  in  the  navy, 
"who  had  him  on  board  his  ship. 


202      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

all  ye  epaulets  and  sabretashes ;  all  ye  guns,  shrapnels,  and 
musketoous  ;  all  ye  silken  banners  embroidered  with  bloody 
reminiscences  of  successful  fights  :  down  —  down  to  the 
bottomless  pit  with  you  all,  and  let  honest  men  live  and 
love  each  other  without  you !  What  business  have  I,  for- 
sooth, to  plume  myself  because  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
beat  the  French  in  Spain  and  elsewhere ;  and  kindle  as  I 
read  the  tale,  and  fancy  myself  of  an  heroic  stock,  because 
my  uncle  Tom  was  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  because 
we  beat  Napoleon  there  ?  Who  are  ive,  in  the  name  of 
Beelzebub  ?  Did  we  ever  fight  in  our  lives  ?  Have  we  the 
slightest  inclination  for  fighting  and  murdering  one  an- 
other ?  Why  are  we  to  go  on  hating  one  another  from 
generation  to  generation,  swelling  up  our  little  bosoms  with 
absurd  national  conceit,  strutting  and  crowing  over  our 
neighbors,  and  longing  to  be  at  fisticuffs  with  them  again  ? 
As  Aristotle  remarks,  in  war  there  are  always  two  parties ; 
and  though  it  often  happens  that  both  declare  themselves 
to  be  victorious,  it  still  is  generally  the  case  that  one  party 
beats  and  the  other  is  beaten.  The  conqueror  is  thus  filled 
with  national  pride,  and  the  conquered  with  national  hatred 
and  a  desire  to  do  better  next  time.  If  he  has  his  revenge 
and  beats  his  opponent  as  desired,  these  agreeable  feelings 
are  reversed,  and  so  Pride  and  Hatred  continue  in  scecula 
sceculorum,  and  ribbons  and  orders  are  given  away,  and 
great  men  rise  and  flourish.    "  Eemember  you  are  Britons  ! " 

cries  our  general ;  "  there  is  the  enemy,  and,  d 'em,  give 

'em  the  bayonet ! "  Hurrah  !  helter-skelter,  load  and  fire, 
cut  and  thrust,  down  they  go  !  "  Soldats  !  dans  ce  moment 
terrible  la  France  vous  regarde  !  Vive  I'Empereur ! "  shouts 
Jacques  Bonhomme,  and  his  sword  is  through  your  ribs  in 
a  twinkling.  "  Children  I "  roars  Feld-marechal  Sauer- 
kraut, "  men  of  Hohenzollernsigmaringen !  remember  the 
eyes  of  Vaterland  are  upon  you !  "  and  murder  again  is  the 
consequence.  Tomahee-tereboo  leads  on  the  Ashantees 
with  the  very  same  war-cry,  and  they  eat  all  their  prisoners 
with  true  patriotic  cannibalism. 

Thus  the  great  truth  is  handed  down  from  father  to  son 
that 

A  Briton,  "j 

A  Hohenzollernsigmaringenite,  etc.  J 

and  by  this  truth  the  dullards  of  the  respective  nations 
swear,  and  by  it  statesmen  govern. 


ox  MEN  AND  PICTURES,  203 

Let  the  reader  say  for  himself,  does  he  not  believe  him- 
self to  be  superior  to  a  man  of  any  other  country  ?  We 
can't  help  it  —  in  spite  of  ourselves  we  do.  But  if,  by 
changing  the  name,  the  fable  applies  to  yourself,  why  do 
you  laugh  ? 

Kvid  Qidrjg ;   fivTaxb)   vojfxivE  dtj  rrj 

as  a  certain  poet  says  (in  a  quotation  that  is  pretty  well 
known  in  England,  and  therefore  put  down  here  in  a  new 
fashion).  Why  do  you  laugh,  forsooth  ?  Why  do  you  not 
laugh  ?  If  donkeys'  ears  are  a  matter  of  laughter,  surely 
we  may  laugh  at  them  when  growing  on  our  own  skulls. 

Take  a  couple  of  instances  from  "actual  life,"  as  the 
fashionable  novel-puifers  say. 

A  little  fat  silly  woman,  who  in  no  country  but  this  would 
ever  have  pretensions  to  beauty,  has  lately  set  up  a  circu- 
lating library  in  our  street.  She  lends  the  live-franc 
editions  of  the  English  novels,  as  well  as  the  romances  of 
her  own  country,  and  I  have  had  several  of  the  former 
works  of  fiction  from  her  store  :  Bulwer's  "  Xight  and 
Morning,"  very  pleasant  kind-hearted  reading;  "Peter 
Priggins,"  an  astonishing  work  of  slang,  that  ought  to  be 
translated  if  but  to  give  Europe  an  idea  of  what  a  gay 
young  gentleman  in  England  sometimes  is ;  and  other  nov- 
els—  never  mind  what.     But  to  revert  to  the  fat  woman. 

She  sits  all  day  ogling  and  simpering  behind  her  little 
counter ;  and  from  the  slow,  prim,  precise  way  in  which  she 
lets  her  silly  sentences  slip  through  her  mouth,  you  see  at 
once  that  she  is  quite  satisfied  with  them,  and  expects  that 
every  customer  should  give  her  an  opportunity  of  uttering 
a  few  of  them  for  his  benefit.  Going  there  for  a  book,  I 
always  find  myself  entangled  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  con- 
versation. 

This  is  carried  on  in  not  very  bad  French  on  my  part ; 
at  least  I  find  that  when  I  say  something  genteel  to  the 
library-woman,  she  is  not  at  a  loss  to  understand  me,  and 
we  have  passed  already  many  minutes  in  this  kind  of  inter- 
course. Two  days  since,  returning  "  Xight  and  Morning  "  to 
the  library-lady  and  demanding  the  romance  of  "  Peter  Prig- 
gins,"  she  offered  me  instead  "Ida,"  par  Monsieur  le  Vicomte 
Darlincourt,  which  I  refused,  having  already  experienced 
some  of  his  lordship's  works ;  next  she  produced  "'  Stella," 
"  Valida,"    "  Eloa,"  by   various   French   ladies   of  literary 


204      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

celebrity ;  but  again  I  declined,  declaring  respectfully  that, 
however  agreeable  the  society  of  ladies  might  be,  I  found 
their  works  a  little  insipid.  The  fact  is,  that  after  being 
accustomed  to  such  potent  mixtures  as  the  French  romancers 
offer  you,  the  mild  compositions  of  the  French  romancer- 
esses  pall  on  the  palate.* 

"Madame,"  says  I,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  "je  ne 
demande  qu'un  roman  Anglais,  ^  Peter  Priggins : '  I'avez- 
vous  ?  oui  ou  non  ?  " 

"  Ah !  "  says  the  library-woman,  "  Monsieur  ne  com- 
prend  pas  notre  langue,  c'est  dommage." 

Now  one  might,  at  first  sight,  fancy  the  above  speech  an 
epigram,  and  not  a  bad  one,  on  an  Englishman's  blundering 
French  grammar  and  pronunciation ;  but  those  who  know 
the  library-lady  must  be  aware  that  she  never  was  guilty  of 
such  a  thing  in  her  life.  It  was  simply  a  French  bull, 
resulting  from  the  lady's  dulness,  and  by  no  means  a  sar- 
casm. She  uttered  the  words  with  a  great  air  of  superiority 
and  a  prim  toss  of  the  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  How  much 
cleverer  I  am  than  you,  you  silly  foreigner  !  and  what  a  fine 
thing  it  is  in  me  to  know  the  finest  language  in  the  world !  " 
In  this  way  I  have  heard  donkeys  of  our  two  countries 
address  foreigners  in  broken  English  or  French,  as  if  peo- 
ple who  could  not  understand  a  language  when  properly 
spoken  could  comprehend  it  when  spoken  ill.  Why  the 
deuce  do  people  give  themselves  these  impertinent  stupid 
airs  of  superiority,  and  pique  themselves  upon  the  great 
cleverness  of  speaking  their  own  language  ? 

Take  another  instance  of  this  same  egregious  national 
conceit.  At  the  English  pastry-cook's  —  (you  can't  readily 
find  a  prettier  or  more  graceful  woman  than  Madame 
Colombin,  nor  better  plum-cake  than  she  sells)  —  at  Ma- 
dame Colombin's,  yesterday,  a  huge  Briton,  with  sandy 
whiskers  and  a  double  chin,  was  swallowing  patties  and 
cherry-brandy,  and  all  the  while  making  remarks  to  a  friend 
similarly  employed.  They  were  talking  about  English  and 
French  ships. 

"  Hang  me,  Higgins,"  says  Sandy-whiskers,  "  if  /'d  ever 
go  into  one  of  their  cursed  French  ships  !  I  should  be 
afraid  of  sinking  at  the  very  first  puff  of  wind  !  " 

*  In  our  own  country,  of  course,  Mrs.  Trollope,  Miss  Mitford,  Miss 
Pardoe,  Mrs.  Charles  Gore,  Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss  Ferrier,  Miss  Stickney, 
Miss  Barrett,  Lady  Blessington,  Miss  Smith,  Mrs.  Austin,  Miss  Austen, 
etc.,  form  exceptions  to  this  rule;  and  glad  am  I  to  offer  per  favor  of 
this  note  a  humble  tribute  of  admiration  to  those  ladies. 


ox  MEN  Ai\D   PICTURES.  205 

What  Higgiiis  replied  does  not  matter.  But  think  what 
a  number  oi  Sandy-whiskerses  there  are  in  our  nation,  — 
fellows  who  are  proud  of  this  stupid  mistrust,  —  who  think 
it  a  mark  of  national  spirit  to  despise  French  skill,  bravery, 
cooker}',  seamanship,  and  what  not.  Swallow  your  beef 
and  porter,  you  great  fat-paunched  man  ;  enjoy  your  lan- 
guage and  your  country,  as  you  have  been  bred  to  do ;  but 
don't  fancy  yourself,  on  account  of  these  inheritances  of 
yours,  superior  to  other  people  of  other  ways  and  language. 
You  have  luck,  perhaps,  if  you  will,  in  having  such  a  diet 
and  dwelling-place,  but  no  merit.  .  .  .  And  with  this  little 
discursive  essay  upon  national  prejudices  let  us  come  back 
to  the  pictures,  and  finish  our  walk  through  the  gallery. 

In  that  agreeable  branch  of  the  art  for  which  we  have  I 
believe  no  name,  but  which  the  French  call  genre,  there  are 
at  Paris  several  eminent  professors  ;  and  as  upon  the  French 
stage  the  costume-pieces  are  far  better  produced  than  with 
us,  so  also  are  French  costume-pictures  much  more  accu- 
rately and  characteristically  handled  than  are  such  subjects 
in  our  own  country.  You  do  not  see  Cimabue  and  Giotto  in 
the  costume  of  Francis  I.,  as  they  appeared  (depicted  by 
Mr.  Simpson,  I  think)  in  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of 
last  year ;  but  the  artists  go  to  some  trouble  in  collecting 
their  antiquarian  stuff,  and  paint  it  pretty  scrupulously. 

Monsieur  Jacquard  has  some  ])retty  small  pictures  de 
genre ;  a  very  good  one,  indeed,  of  fat  *'  Monks  granting 
Absolution  from  Fasting ; "  of  which  the  details  are  finely 
and  accurately  painted,  a  task  more  easy  for  a  French 
artist  than  an  English  one,  for  the  former's  studio  (as  may 
be  seen  by  a  picture  in  this  exhibition)  is  generally  a  mag- 
nificent curiosity  shop ;  and  for  old  carvings,  screens, 
crockery,  armor,  draperies,  etc.,  the  painter  here  has  but 
to  look  to  his  own  walls  and  cop}'  away  at  his  ease.  Accord- 
ingly Jacquard's  monks,  especially  all  the  properties  of  the 
picture,  are  admirable. 

Monsieur  Baron  has  "The  Youth  of  Ribera,"  a  merry 
Spanish  beggar-boy,  among  a  crowd  of  his  like,  drawing 
sketches  of  them  under  a  garden  wall.  The  figures  are 
very  prettily  thought  and  grouped ;  there  is  a  fine  terrace, 
and  palace,  and  statues  in  the  background,  very  rich  and 
luxurious  ;  perhaps  too  pretty  and  gay  in  colors,  and  too 
strong  in  details. 

But  the  king  of  the  painters  of  small  history  subjects  is 
Monsieur  Robert  Fleury  ;  a  great  artist  indeed,  and  I  trust 


206       CRITICISMS   IX   LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

heartily  he  may  be  induced  to  send  one  or  two  of  his  pieces 
to  Loudon,  to  show  our  people  what  he  can  do.  His  mind, 
judging  from  his  works,  is  rather  of  a  gloomy  turn  ;  and  he 
deals  somewhat  too  much,  to  my  taste,  in  the  horrible. 
He  has  this  year  "A  Scene  in  the  Inquisition."  A  man  is 
howling  and  writhing  with  his  feet  over  a  fire  ;  grim  inquisi- 
tors are  watching  over  him  ;  and  a  dreadful  executioner, 
with  herce  eyes  peering  from  under  a  mysterious  capuchin, 
is  doggedly  sitting  over  the  coals.  The  picture  is  down- 
right horror,  but  admirably  and  honestly  drawn;  and  in 
effect  rich,  sombre,  and  simple. 

"  Benvenuto  Cellini "  is  better  still ;  and  the  critics  have 
lauded  the  piece  as  giving  a  good  idea  of  the  fierce  fantas- 
tic Florentine  sculptor ;  but  I  think  Monsieur  Fleury  has 
taken  him  in  too  grim  a  mood,  and  made  his  ferocity  too 
downright.  There  was  always  a  dash  of  the  ridiculous  in 
the  man,  even  in  his  most  truculent  moments ;  and  I  fancy 
that  such  simple  rage  as  is  here  represented  scarcely  char- 
acterizes him.  The  fellow  never  cut  a  throat  without  some 
sense  of  humor,  and  here  we  have  him  greatly  too  majestic 
to  my  taste.  "  Old  Michael  Angelo  watching  over  the 
Sick-bed  of  his  Servant  Urbino  "  is  a  noble  painting ;  as 
fine  in  feeling  as  in  design  and  color.  One  can't  but  admire 
in  all  these  the  manlmess  of  the  artist.  The  picture  is 
painted  in  a  large,  rich,  massive,  vigorous  manner ;  and  it 
is  gratifying  to  see  that  this  great  man,  after  resolute  seek- 
ing for  many  years,  has  found  the  full  use  of  his  hand  at 
last,  and  can  express  himself  as  he  would.  The  picture  is 
fit  to  hang  in  the  very  best  gallery  in  the  world ;  and  a 
century  hence  will  no  doubt  be  worth  five  times  as  many 
crowns  as  the  artist  asks  or  has  had  for  it. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  great  pictures,  let  us  here  men- 
tion 

712.     '^  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  by  Hippolyte  Flandrin. 

Of  this  portrait  all  I  can  aay  is,  that  if  you  take  the  best 
portraits  by  the  best  masters  —  a  head  of  Sebastian  or 
Michael  Angelo,  a  head  of  Raphael,  or  one  of  those  rarer 
ones  of  Andrea  del  Sarto  —  not  one  of  them,  for  lofty  char- 
acter and  majestic  nobleness  and  simplicity,  can  surpass 
this  magnificent  work. 

This  seems,  doubtless,  very  exaggerated  j^raise,  and  people 
reading  it  may  possibly  sneer  at  the  critic  who  ventures  to 
speak  in  such  a  way.  To  all  such  I  say,  Come  and  see  it. 
You  who  admire  Sir  Thomas  and  the  "  Books  of  Beauty  " 


ON  MEN  AND  PICTURES.  207 

will  possibly  not  admire  it ;  you  who  give  ten  thousand 
guineas  for  a  blowzy  Murillo  will  possibly  not  relish  Mon- 
sieur Flandrin's  manner;  but  you  who  love  sim})licity  and 
greatness  come  and  see  how  an  old  lady,  with  a  black  man- 
tilla and  dark  eyes,  and  gray  hair  and  a  few  red  flowers  in 
her  cap,  has  been  painted  by  Monsieur  Flandrin  of  Lyons. 
If  I  were  Louis  Philippe,  I  would  send  a  legion-of-honor 
cross,  of  the  biggest  sort,  to  decorate  the  bosom  of  tiie 
painter  who  has  executed  this  noble  piece. 

As  for  portraits  (with  the  exception  of  this  one,  which  no 
man  in  England  can  equal,  not  even  Mr.  Samuel  Lawrence, 
who  is  trying  to  get  to  this  point,  but  has  not  reached  it 
yet)  our  English  painters  keep  the  lead  still,  nor  is  there 
much  remarkable  among  the  hundreds  in  the  gallery. 
There  are  vast  numbers  of  English  faces  staring  at  you 
from  the  canvases  ;  and  among  the  miniatures  especially 
one  can't  help  laughing  at  the  continual  recurrence  of  the 
healthy,  vacant,  simpering,  aristocratic  English  type. 
There  are  black  velvets  and  satins,  ladies  with  birds  of 
paradise,  deputies  on  sofas,  and  generals  and  marshals  in 
the  midst  of  smoke  and  cannon-balls.  Nothing  can  be  less 
to  my  taste  than  a  pot-bellied  swaggering  Marshal  Soult, 
who  rests  his  baton  on  liis  stomach,  and  looks  at  you  in  the 
midst  of  a  dim  cloud  of  war.  The  Duchesse  de  Nemours  is 
done  by  Monsieur  Winterhalter,  and  has  a  place  of  honor, 
as  becomes  a  good  portrait ;  and,  above  all,  such  a  pretty 
lady.  She  is  a  pretty,  smiling,  buxom  blonde,  with  plenty 
of  hair,  and  rather  too  much  hands,  not  to  speak  disrespect- 
fully ;  and  a  slice  of  lace  which  goes  across  tlie  middle  of 
her  white  satin  gown  seems  to  cut  the  picture  very  dis- 
agreeably in  two.  There  is  a  beautiful  head  in  a  large 
portrait  of  a  lad  of  eighteen,  painted  by  himself ;  and  here 
may  be  mentioned  two  single  tigures  in  pastel  by  an  archi- 
tect, remarkable  for  earnest  spirifuel  beauty ;  likewise  two 
heads  in  chalk  by  De  Rudder  ;  most  charming  sketches,  full 
of  delicacy,  grace,  and  truth. 

The  only  one  of  the  acknowledged  great  who  has  ex- 
hibited this  year  is  Monsieur  Delacroix,  who  has  a  large 
picture  relative  to  the  siege  of  Constantinople  that  looks 
very  like  a  piece  of  crumpled  tapestry,  but  that  has  never- 
theless its  admirers  and  its  merits,  as  what  work  of  his 
has  not  ? 

His  two  smaller  pieces  are  charming.  "  A  Jewish  Wed- 
ding at  Tangiers  "  is  brilliant  with  light  and  merriment ;  a 


208      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

particulcar  sort  of  merriment,  that  is,  that  makes  you  gloomy 
in  the  very  midst  of  the  heyday :  and  his  "  Boat"  is  awful. 
A  score  of  shipwrecked  men  are  in  this  boat,  on  a  great, 
wide,  swollen,  interminable  sea  —  no  hope,  no  speck  of  sail 

—  and  they  are  drawing  lots  which  shall  be  killed  and  eaten. 
A  burly  seaman,  with  a  red  beard,  has  just  put^  his  hand 
into  the  hat  and  is  touching  his  own  to  the  officer.  One 
fellow  sits  with  his  hands  clasped,  and  gazing  —  gazing  into 
the  great  void  before  him.  By  Jupiter,  his  eyes  are  un- 
fathomable !  he  is  looking  at  miles  and  miles  of  lead- 
colored,  bitter,  pitiless  brine  !  Indeed  one  can't  bear  to 
look  at  him  long  ;  nor  at  that  poor  woman,  so  sickly,  and 
so  beautiful,  whom  they  may  as  well  kill  at  once,  or  she 
will  save  them  the  trouble  of  drawing  straws  ;  and  give  up 
to  their  maws  that  poor,  white,  faded,  delicate,  shrivelled 
carcass.  Ah,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  hungry  !  Oh,  Eugenius 
Delacroix  !  how  can  you  manage,  with  a  few  paint-bladders, 
and  a  dirty  brush,  and  a  careless  hand,  to  dash  down  such 
savage  histories  as  these,  and  fill  people's  minds  with 
thoughts  so  dreadful  ?  Ay,  there  it  is  ;  whenever  I  go 
through  that  part  of  the  gallery  where  Monsieur  Delacroix's 
picture  is,  I  always  turn  away  now,  and  look  at  a  fat  woman 
with  a  paroquet  opposite.  For  what's  the  use  of  being 
uncomfortable  ? 

Another  great  picture  is  one  of  about  four  inches  square 

—  "  The  Chess-Players,"  by  Monsieur  Meissonier  —  truly  an 
astonishing  piece  of  workmanship.  No  silly  tricks  of  effect, 
and  abrupt  startling  shadow  and  light,  but  a  picture  painted 
with  the  minuteness  and  accuracy  of  a  daguerreotype,  and 
as  near  as  possible  perfect  in  its  kind.  Two  men  are  play- 
ing at  chess,  and  the  chess-men  are  no  bigger  than  pin- 
heads  ;  every  one  of  them  an  accurate  portrait,  with  all  the 
light,  shadow,  roundness,  character,  and  color  belonging 
to  it. 

Of  the  landscapes  it  is  very  hard  indeed  to  speak,  for 
professors  of  landscape  almost  all  execute  their  art  well ; 
but  few  so  well  as  to  strike  one  with  especial  attention,  or 
to  produce  much  remark.  Constable  has  been  a  great 
friend  to  the  new  landscape-school  in  France,  who  have  laid 
aside  the  slimy  weak  manner  formerly  in  vogue,  and  per- 
haps have  adopted  in  its  place  a  method  equally  repre- 
hensible —  that  of  plastering  their  pictures  excessively. 
When  you  wish  to  represent  a  piece  of  old  timber,  or  a 
crumbling  wall,  or  the  ruts  and  stones   in  a  road,  this  im- 


ON  MEX  AXD   PICTURES.  209 

pasting  method  is  very  successful ;  but  here  the  skies  are 
trowelled  on ;  the  light-vaporing  distances  are  as  thick  as 
plum-pudding,  the  cool  clear  shadows  are  mashed-down 
masses  of  sienna  and  indigo.  But  it  is  undeniable  that,  by 
these  violent  means,  a  certain  power  is  had,  and  noonday 
effects  of  strong  sunshine  are  often  dashingly  rendered. 

How  much  pleasanter  is  it  to  see  a  little  quiet  gray  waste 
of  David  Cox  than  the  very  best  and  smartest  of  such 
works  I  Some  men  from  Diisseldorf  have  sent  very  fine 
scientific  faithful  pictures,  that  are  a  little  heavy,  but  still 
you  see  that  they  are  portraits  drawn  respectfully  from  the 
great,  beautiful,  various,  divine  face  of  Nature. 

In  the  statue-gallery  there  is  nothing  worth  talking 
about ;  and  so  let  us  inake  an  end  of  the  Louvre,  and 
politely  wish  a  good-morning  to  everybody. 


210     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 


AN   EXHIBITION   GOSSIP. 

BY     MICHAEL     ANGELO     TITMARSH. 

In  a  Lettek  to  Monsieur  Guillaume,  Peintke,  A  son 
Ateliek,  Rue  de  Monsieujr,  Fauboukg  St.  Gekmain, 
Paris. 

[Aiyisworth' s  Magazine,  June,  1842.] 

Dem'  Guillaume,  —  Some  of  the  dullest  chapters  that 
ever  were  written  in  this  world  —  viz.,  those  on  the  History 
of  Modern  Europe,  by  Russell,  begin  with  an  address  to 
some  imaginary  young  friend,  to  whom  the  Doctor  is  sup- 
posed to  communicate  his  knowledge.  "  Dear  John," 
begins  he,  quite  affectionately,  "  I  take  up  my  pen  to  state 
that  the  last  of  the  Carlo vingians  "  —  or,  "  Dear  John,  I 
am  happy  to  inform  you  that  the  aspect  of  Europe  on  the 
accession  of  Henry  VIII.  was  so  and  so."  In  the  same 
manner,  and  in  your  famous  ^^  Lettres  a  Sophie,^^  the  history 
of  the  heathen  gods  and  goddesses  is  communicated  to 
some  possible  young  lady ;  and  this  simple  plan  has,  no 
doubt,  been  adopted  because  the  authors  wished  to  convey 
their  information  with  the  utmost  simplicity  possible,  and 
in  a  free,  easy,  honest,  confidential  sort  of  a  way. 

This  (as  usual),  dear  Guillaume,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  subject  in  hand ;  but  I  have  ventured  to  place  a  little 
gossip  concerning  the  Exhibition,  under  an  envelope  in- 
scribed with  your  respectable  name,  because  I  have  no  right 
to  adopt  the  editorial  lue,  and  so  implicate  a  host  of  illustri- 
ous authors,  who  give  their  names  and  aid  to  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's  Magazine,  in  opinions  that  are  very  likely  not  worth 
sixpence ;  and  because  that  simple  upright  I,  which  often 
seems  egotistical  and  presuming,  is,  I  fancy,  less  affected 
and  pert  than  "  we  "  often  is.  "  I  "  is  merely  an  individual  5 
whereas,  "  we  "  is  clearly  somebody  else.  "  I  "  merely  ex- 
presses an  opinion ;  whereas,  "  we "  at  once  lays  down 
the  law. 

Pardon,  then,  the  continued  use  of  the  personal  pronoun, 
as  I  am  sure,  my  dear  friend,  3^ou  will ;  because  as  you  do 


A\    EXHIBITION   GOSSIP.  211 

not  understand  a  word  of  English,  how  possibly  can  you 
quarrel  with  my  style  ? 

We  have  often  had  great  battles  together  on  the  subject 
of  our  respective  schools  of  art;  and  having  seen  the  two 
Exhibitions,  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  say  that  ours  is  the 
best  this  year,  at  least,  though,  perhaps,  for  many  years 
past  you  have  had  the  superiority.  We  have  more  good 
pictures  in  our  1400,  than  you  in  your  3000 ;  among  the 
good,  we  have  more  very  good,  than  you  have  this  year 
(none  nobler  and  better  than  the  drawings  of  M.  Decamps) ; 
and  though  there  are  no  such  large  canvases  and  ambi- 
tious subjects  as  cover  the  walls  of  your  sidon,  1  think  our 
painters  have  more  first-class  pictures  in  their  humble  way. 

They  wisely,  I  think,  avoid  those  great  historical 
'•'  parades  "  which  cover  so  much  space  in  the  Louvre.  A 
young  man  has  sometimes  a  fit  of  what  is  called  "  histori- 
cal painting ;  "  comes  out  with  a  great  canvas,  disposed  in 
the  regular  six-feet  heroical  order;  and  having  probably 
half  ruined  himself  in  the  painting  of  his  piece,  which 
nobody  (let  us  be  thankful  for  it !)  buys,  curses  the  de- 
cayed state  of  taste  in  the  country,  and  falls  to  portrait- 
painting,  or  takes  small  natural  subjects,  in  which  the 
world  can  sympathize,  and  with  which  he  is  best  able  to 
grapple.  We  have  no  government  museums  like  yours  to 
furnish ;  —  no  galleries  in  chief  towns  of  departments 
to  adorn  ;  —  no  painted  chapels,  requiring  fresh  supi)lies 
of  saints  and  martyrs,  which  your  artists  do  to  order.  Art 
is  a  matter  of  private  enterprise  here,  like  everything  else  : 
and  our  painters  must  suit  the  small  rooms  of  their  custom- 
ers, and  supply  them  with  such  subjects  as  are  likely  to 
please  them.  If  you  were  to  make  me  a  present  of  half  a 
cartoon,  or  a  prophet  by  ^lichael  Angelo,  or  a  Spanish 
martyrdom,  I  would  turn  the  picture  against  the  wall. 
Such  great  things  are  only  good  for  great  edifices,  and  to 
be  seen  occasionally;  —  we  want  pleasant  pictures,  that  we 
can  live  with  —  something  that  shall  be  lively,  pleasing  or 
tender,  or  sublime,  if  j^ou  will,  but  only  of  a  moderate- 
sized  sublimity.  Confess,  if  you  had  to  live  in  a  huge 
room  with  the  Last  Judgment  at  one  end  of  it,  and  the 
Death  of  Ananias  at  the  other,  would  not  you  be  afraid  to 
remain  alone  — or,  at  any  rate,  long  for  a  comfortable  bare 
wall  ?  The  world  produces,  now  and  then,  one  of  the 
great  daring  geniuses  who  make  those  tremendous  works  of 
art ;  but  they  come  only  seldom  —  and  Heaven  be  thanked 


212     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

for  it !  We  have  had  one  in  our  country  —  John  Milton  by 
name.  Honestly  confess  now,  was  there  not  a  fervor  in 
your  youth  when  3'ou  had  a  plan  of  an  epic,  or,  at  least,  of 
an  heroic  Michael-Angelesque  picture  ?  The  sublime  rage 
fades  as  one  grows  older  and  cooler ;  and  so  the  good,  sen- 
sible, honest  English  painters,  for  the  most  part,  content 
themselves  with  doing  no  more  than  they  can. 

But  though  we  have  no  heroical  canvases,  it  is  not  to  be 
inferred  that  we  do  not  cultivate  a  humbler  sort  of  high 
art ;  and  you  painters  of  religious  subjects  know,  from  the 
very  subjects  which  you  are  called  upon  to  draw,  that 
humility  may  be  even  more  sublime  than  greatness.  For 
instance,  there  is  in  almost  everything  Mr.  Eastlake  does 
(in  spite  of  a  little  feebleness  of  hand  and  primness  of 
mannerism)  a  purity  which  is  to  us  quite  angelical,  so  that 
we  can't  look  at  one  of  his  pictures  without  being  touched 
and  purified  by  it.  Mr.  Mulready  has  an  art,  too,  which  is 
not  inferior,  and  though  he  commonly  takes,  like  the  before- 
mentioned  gentleman,  some  very  simple,  homely  subject  to 
illustrate,  manages  to  affect  and  deliglit  one,  as  much  as 
painter  can.  Mr.  Mulready  calls  his  picture,  "  The  Ford ;  " 
Mr.  Eastlake  styles  his,  "  Sisters."  The  "  Sisters  "  are  two 
young  ladies  looking  over  a  balcony;  "The  Ford"  is  a 
stream  through  which  some  boys  are  carrying  a  girl :  and 
how  is  a  critic  to  describe  the  beauty  in  such  subjects  as 
these  ?  It  would  be  easy  to  say  these  pictures  are  exqui- 
sitely drawn,  beautifully  colored,  and  so  forth ;  but  that  is 
not  the  reason  of  their  beauty :  on  the  contrary,  any  man 
who  has  a  mind  may  find  fault  with  the  drawing  and  color- 
ing of  both.  AVell,  there  is  a  charm  about  them  seemingly 
independent  of  drawing  and  coloring :  and  what  is  it  ? 
There's  no  foot  rule  that  I  know  of  to  measure  it ;  and  the 
very  wisest  lecturer  on  art  might  define  and  define,  and  be 
not  a  whit  nearer  the  truth.  I  can't  tell  you  why  I  like  to 
hear  a  blackbird  sing ;  it  is  certainly  not  so  clever  as  a 
piping  bullfinch. 

I  always  begin  with  the  works  of  these  gentlemen,  and 
look  at  them  oftenestand  longest ;  but  that  is  only  a  simple 
expression  of  individual  taste,  and  by  no  means  an  attempt 
at  laying  down  the  law,  upon  a  subject  which  is  quite  out 
of  the  limits  of  all  legislation.  A  better  critic  might 
possibly  (I  say  "  possibly,"  not  as  regards  the  correctness 
of  my  own  opinion,  but  the  unquestionable  merit  of  the 
two   admirable   artists   above  named),  another  critic  will 


AX  EXHIBITION  GOSSIP.  213 

possibly  have  other  objects  for  admiration,  and  if  such  a 
person  were  to  sa}',  Pause  —  before  you  award  pre-emi- 
nence to  this  artist  or  that,  pause  —  for  instance,  look  at 
those  two  Leslies,  can  anything  in  point  of  esprit  and  feel- 
ing surpass  them  ?  —  indeed  the  other  critic  would  give 
very  sound  advice.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  comedy 
of  the  Scene  from  Twelfth  Night,  more  joyous,  frank, 
manly,  laughter-moving;  —  or  more  tender,  and  grave,  and 
naif,  than  the  picture  of  Queen  Catherine  and  her  attend- 
ant. The  great  beauty  of  these  pieces  is  the  total  absence 
of  affectation.  The  figures  are  in  perfectly  quiet,  simple 
positions,  looking  as  if  they  were  not  the  least  aware  of 
the  spectator's  presence  (a  rare  quality  in  pictures,  as  I 
think,  of  which  little  dramas,  the  actors,  like  those  upon 
the  living  stage,  have  a  great  love  of  "  striking  an  attitude," 
and  are  always  on  the  look-out  for  the  applause  of  the 
lookers-on),  whereas  Mr.  Leslie's  excellent  little  troop  of 
comedians  know  their  art  so  perfectly  that  it  becomes  the 
very  image  of  nature,  and  the  best  nature,  too.  Some 
painters  (skilled  in  the  depicting  of  such  knicknacks) 
overpower  their  pieces  with  "properties" — guitars,  old 
armors,  flower-jugs,  curtains,  and  what  not.  The  very 
chairs  and  tables  in  the  picture  of  Queen  Catherine  have  a 
noble,  simple  arrangement  about  them ;  they  look  sad  and 
stately,  and  cast  great  dreary  shadows  —  they  will  lighten 
up  a  little,  doubtless,  when  the  girl  begins  to  sing. 

You  and  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  accusing  one  of  the 
cleverest  painters  of  the  country  of  want  of  poetry :  no 
other  than  Mr.  Edwin  Landseer,  who,  with  his  marvellous 
power  of  hand,  a  sort  of  aristocrat  among  painters,  has 
seemed  to  say  —  I  care  for  my  dog  and  my  gun ;  I'm  an 
English  country  gentleman,  and  poetry  is  beneath  me.  He 
has  made  us  laugh  sometimes,  when  he  is  in  the  mood,  with 
his  admirable  humor,  but  has  held  off  as  it  were  from  poetic 
subjects,  as  a  man  would  do  who  was  addressing  himself  in 
a  fine  ball-room  to  a  party  of  fine  people,  who  would  stare 
if  any  such  subjects  were  broached.  I  don't  care  to  own 
that  in  former  years  those  dogs,  those  birds,  deer,  wild- 
ducks,  and  so  forth,  were  painted  to  such  a  pitch  of  des- 
perate perfection  as  to  make  me  quite  angry  —  elegant, 
beautiful,  well-appointed,  perfect  models  for  grace  and 
manner ;  they  were  like  some  of  our  English  dandies  that 
one  sees,  and  who  never  can  be  brought  to  pass  the  limits 
of  a  certain  polite  smile,  and  decorous,  sensible  insipidity. 


214     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

The  more  one  sees  them,  the  more  vexed  one  grows,  for,  be 
hanged  to  them,  there  is  no  earthly  fault  to  find  with  them. 
This,  to  be  sure,  is  begging  the  question,  and  you  may  not 
be  disposed  to  allow  either  the  correctness  of  the  simile,  or 
that  dandies  are  insipid,  or  that  field  sports,  or  pictures 
thereof,  can  possibly  be  tedious ;  but,  at  any  rate,  it  is  a 
comfort  to  see  that  a  man  of  genius,  who  is  a  poet,  will  be 
one  sometimes,  and  here  are  a  couple  of  noble  poetical 
pieces  from  Mr.  Landseer's  pencil.  The  "  Otter  and  Trout " 
has  something  awful  about  it ;  the  hunted  stag,  panting 
through  the  water  and  startling  up  the  wild-fowl,  is  a  beau- 
tiful and  touching  poem.  Oh,  that  these  two  pictures,  and 
a  few  more  of  different  English  artists,  could  be  carried 
across  the  Channel  —  say  when  Mr.  Partridge's  portrait  of 
the  Queen  goes  to  act  as  a  counterpoise  to  that  work ! 

A  few  Etties  might  likewise  be  put  into  the  same  box, 
and  a  few  delightful  golden  landscapes  of  Callcott.  To 
these  I  would  add  Mr.  Maclise's  "Hamlet,"  about  whose 
faults  and  merits  there  have  been  some  loud  controversies ; 
but  in  every  Exhibition  for  the  last  five  years,  if  you  saw  a 
crowd  before  a  picture,  it  was  sure  to  be  before  his ;  and 
with  all  the  faults  people  found,  no  one  could  go  away 
without  a  sort  of  wonder  at  the  prodigious  talent  of  this 
gentleman.  Sometimes  it  was  mere  wonder ;  in  the  pres- 
ent Exhibition  it  is  wonder  and  pleasure  too ;  and  his  pic- 
ture of  Hamlet  is  by  far  the  best,  to  my  thinking,  that  the 
artist  has  ever  produced.  If,  for  the  credit  of  Old  Eng- 
land (and  I  hereby  humbly  beg  Mr.  Maclise  to  listen  to  the 
suggestion),  it  could  be  transported  to  the  walls  of  your 
salon,  it  would  show  French  artists,  who  are  accustomed  to 
sneer  at  the  drawing  of  the  English  school,  that  we  have  a 
man  whose  power  of  drawing  is  greater  than  that  of  any 
artist  among  you,  —  of  any  artist  that  ever  lived,  I  should 
like  to  venture  to  say.  An  artist,  possessing  this  vast 
power  of  hand,  often  wastes  it  —  as  Paganini  did,  for  in- 
stance —  in  capriccios,  and  extravagances,  and  brilliant 
feats  of  skill,  as  if  defying  the  world  to  come  and  cope 
with  him.  The  picture  of  the  play  in  "  Hamlet  "  is  a  great 
deal  more,  and  is  a  noble  poetic  delineation  of  the  awful 
story.  Here  I  am  obliged  to  repeat,  for  the  tenth  time  in 
this  letter,  how  vain  it  is  to  attempt  to  describe  such  works 
by  means  of  pen  and  ink.  Fancy  Hamlet,  ungartered, 
lying  on  the  ground,  looking  into  the  very  soul  of  King 
Claudius,  who  writhes  under  the  play  of  Gonzago.     Fancy 


AN  EXHIBITION  GOSSIP.  215 

the  Queen,  perplexed  and  sad  (she  does  not  know  of  the 
murder),  and  poor  Ophelia,  and  Polonius,  with  his  staff, 
pottering  over  the  tragedy;  and  Horatio,  and  all  sorts  of 
knights  and  ladies,  looking  wondering  on.  Fancy,  in  the 
little  theatre,  the  king  asleep  ;  a  lamp  in  front  casts  a  huge 
forked  fantastic  shadow  over  the  scene  —  a  shadow  that 
looks  like  a  horrible  devil  in  the  background  that  is  grin- 
ning and  aping  the  murder.  Fancy  ghastly  flickering 
tapestries  of  Cain  and  Abel  on  the  walls,  and  all  this 
painted  with  the  utmost  force,  truth,  and  dexterity  — fancy 
all  this,  and  then  you  will  have  not  the  least  idea  of  one  of 
the  most  startling,  wonderful  pictures  that  the  English 
school  has  ever  produced. 

Mr.  ^Maclise  may  be  said  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  young 
men  ;  and  though  you  and  I,  my  dear  Guillaume,  are  both 
old,  and  while  others  are  perpetuall}"  deploring  the  past,  I 
think  it  is  a  consolation  to  see  that  the  present  is  better, 
and  to  argue  that  the  future  will  be  better  still.  You  did 
not  give  up  David  without  a  pang,  and  still  think  Baron 
Gerard  a  very  wonderful  fellow.  I  can  remember  once, 
when  Westall  seemed  really  worth  looking  at,  when  a  huge 
black  exaggeration  of  Northcote  or  Opie  struck  me  as 
mighty  fine,  and  Mr.  West  seemed  a  most  worthy  Presi- 
dent of  our  Academy.  Confess  now  that  the  race  who  suc- 
ceeded them  did  better  than  they ;  and  indeed  the  young 
men,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  hint  such  a  thing,  do  better 
still  —  not  better  than  individuals  —  for  Eastlake,  Mul- 
ready,  Etty,  Leslie,  are  exhibiters  of  twenty  years'  stand- 
ing, and  the  young  men  may  live  a  thousand  years  and 
never  surpass  them ;  but  a  finer  taste  is  more  general 
among  them  than  existed  some  thirty  years  back,  and  a 
purer,  humbler,  truer  love  of  nature.  Have  you  seen  the 
"Deserted  Village"  of  the  "Etching  Club"?  What  charm- 
ing feeling  and  purity  is  there  among  most  of  the  designs 
of  these  young  painters,  and  what  a  credit  are  they  to  the 
English  school ! 

The  designers  of  the  "Etching  Club"  seem  to  form  a 
little  knot  or  circle  among  themselves  ;  and  though  the 
names  of  Cope,  Eedgrave,  Herbert,  Stone,  have  hardly 
reached  you  as  yet  in  France,  they  will  be  heard  of  some 
day  even  there,  where  jonv  clever  people,  who  can  appre- 
ciate all  sorts  of  art,  will  not  fail  to  admire  the  quiet, 
thoughtful,  pious,  delicate  feeling  which  characterizes  the 
works  of  this  charming  little  school.     All  ]\Ir.  Cope's  pic- 


216     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

tures,  though  somewhat  feeble  in  hand,  are  beautifully  ten- 
der and  graceful.  "The  Hawthorn-bush,  wdth  seats  beneath 
the  shade,  for  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made,"  is 
a  beautiful  picture  for  color,  sentiment,  and  composition. 
The  old  people,  pro]3erly  garrulous,  talking  of  old  times,  or 
the  crops,  or  the  Doctor's  sermon ;  the  lovers  —  a  charm- 
ing pair  —  loving  with  all  their  souls,  kind,  hearty,  and 
tender.  The  Schoolmaster  of  one  of  his  other  pictures  is 
an  excellent  awful  portrait  of  Goldsmith's  pedagogue.  Mr. 
lledgrave's  "Cinderella"  is  very  pleasant,  his  landscape 
beautiful.  Mr.  Stone's  "Advice"  is  full  of  tender  senti- 
ment, and  contains  some  frank,  excellent  painting ;  but 
how  vapid  all  such  comments  appear,  and  how  can  you,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Seine,  understand  from  these  sort  of 
vague,  unsatisfactory  praises,  what  are  the  merits  or  de- 
merits of  the  pieces  spoken  about ! 

We  have  here  a  delightful,  naif  artist,  Mr.  Webster  by 
name,  who  has  taken  little  boys  under  his  protection,  and 
paints  them  in  the  most  charming  comic  way  —  in  that 
best  sort  of  comedy,  which  makes  one  doubt  whether  to 
laugh  or  to  cry.  His  largest  picture  this  year  represents 
two  boys  bound  for  school.  Breakfast  is  hurried  over  (a 
horrid  early  breakfast)  ;  the  trunk  is  packed  ;  papa  is  pull- 
ing on  his  boots  ;  there  is  the  coach  coming  down  the  hill, 
and  the  guard  blowing  his  pitiless  horn.  All  the  little  girls 
are  gathered  round  their  brothers  :  the  elder  is  munching  a 
biscuit,  and  determined  to  be  a  man ;  but  the  younger, 
whom  the  little  sister  of  all  has  got  hold  of  by  the  hand, 
can't  bear  the  parting,  and  is  crying  his  eyes  out. 

I  quarrel  with  Mr.  Webster  for  making  one  laugh  at  the 
boy,  and  giving  him  a  comic  face.  I  say  no  man  who  has 
experienced  it  has  a  right  to  laugh  at  such  a  sorrow.  Did 
you  ever,  in  France,  look  out  for  the  diligence  that  was  to 
take  you  to  school,  and  hear  a  fatal  conducteur  blowing  his 
horn  as  you  waited  by  the  hillside  —  as  you  waited  with 
the  poor  mother,  turning  her  eyes  away  —  and  slowly  got 
off  the  old  pony,  which  you  were  not  to  see  for  six  months 
—  for  a  century  —  for  a  thousand  miserable  years  again  ? 
Oh,  that  first  night  at  school !  those  bitter,  bitter  tears  at 
night,  as  you  lay  awake  in  the  silence,  poor  little  lonely 
boy,  yearning  after  love  and  home.  Life  has  sorrows 
enough,  God  knows,  but,  I  swear,  none  like  that !  I  was 
thinking  about  all  this  as  I  looked  at  Mr.  Webster's  pic- 
ture, and  behold  it  turned  itself  into  an  avenue  of  lime- 


A\   EXHIBITION  GOSSIP.  217 

trees,  and  a  certain  old  stile  that  led  to  a  stubble-field  ;  and 
it  was  evening,  about  the  14th  of  September,  and  after  din- 
ner (how  that  last  glass  of  wine  used  to  choke  and  burn  in 
the  throat  I),  and  presently,  a  mile  off,  3-ou  heard,  horribly 
distinct,  the  whirring  of  the  well-kno^vn  Defiance  coach 
wheels.  It  was  up  in  a  moment  —  the  trunk  on  the  roof  ; 
and  —  bah  !  from  that  day  I  can't  bear  to  see  mothers  and 
children  parting. 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  beside  the  subject ;  but  pray  let  Mr. 
Webster  change  the  face  of  his  boy. 

Letters  (except  from  young  ladies  to  one  another)  are 
not  allowed  to  go  beyond  a  certain  decent  length ;  hence, 
though  I  may  have  a  fancy  to  speak  to  you  of  many  score 
of  other  good  pictures,  out  of  the  fourteen  hundred  here 
exhibited,  there  are "  numbers  which  we  must  pass  over 
without  any  notice  whatever.  It  is  hard  to  pass  by  Mr. 
Richmond's  beautiful  water-color  figures,  without  a  word 
concerning  them  ;  or  ^Mr.  Charles  Landseer's  capital  picture 
of  "Ladies  and  Cavaliers  ;  "  or  not  to  have  at  least  half  a 
page  to  spare,  in  order  to  make  an  onslaught  upon  ^Iv. 
Chalon  and  his  ogling  beauties  :  he  has  a  portrait  of  ]Mdlle. 
Rachel,  quite  curious  for  its  cleverness  and  unlikeness,  and 
one  of  the  most  chaste  and  refined  of  our  actresses,  Mrs. 
Charles  Kean,  who  is  represented  as  a  killing  coquette  ; 
and  so  Mr.  Kean  ma}-  be  thankful  that  the  portrait  does 
not  in  the  least  resemble  his  lady. 

There  is  scarce  any  need  to  say  that  the  oil-portrait 
painters  maintain  their  usual  reputation  and  excellence  ; 
Mr.  Briggs,  ]\[r.  Pickersgill,  Mr.  Grant,  show  some  excel- 
lent canvases  :  the  latter's  ladies  are  beautiful,  and  his 
••'  Lord  Cardigan  "  a  fine  painting  and  portrait ;  Mr.  Briggs's 
'•Archbishop"  is  a  noble  head  and  picture ;  Mr.  Pickersgill 
has,  among  others,  a  full-length  of  a  Navy  Captain,  very 
fine ;  Mr.  Linnell's  portraits  are  very  fine ;  and  Mr.  S. 
Lawrence  has  one  (the  Attornej'-General),  excellently 
drawn,  and  fine  in  character.  This  year's  picture  of  her 
Majesty  is  intended  for  f/our  Majesty,  Louis  Philippe  — 
perhaps  the  French  court  might  have  had  a  more  favorable 
representation  of  the  Queen.  There  is  only  one  ''Duke  of 
Wellington"  that  I  have  remarked  —  (indeed  it  must  be  a 
weary  task  to  the  good-natured  and  simple  old  nobleman  to 
give  up  to  artists  the  use  of  his  brave  face,  as  he  is  so  often 
called  upon  to  do)  —  at  present  he  appears  in  a  group  of 
red-coated  brethren  in  arms,  called  the  "  Heroes  of  Water- 


218      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART, 

loo."  The  picture,  from  the  quantity  of  requisite  vermil- 
ion, was  most  difficult  to  treat,  but  is  cleverly  managed, 
and  the  likeness  very  good.  All  the  warriors  assembled  are 
smiling,  to  a  man ;  and  in  the  background  is  a  picture  of 
Napoleon,  who  is  smiling  too  —  and  this  is  surely  too  great 
a  stretch  of  good  nature. 

What  can  I  say  of  the  Napoleon  of  Mr.  Turner  ?  called 
(with  frightful  satire)  the  "Exile  and  the  Rock-limpet.^^ 
He  stands  in  the  midst  of  a  scarlet  tornado,  looking  at 
least  forty  feet  high. 

Ah !  says  the  mysterious  poet,  from  whom  Mr.  Turner 
loves  to  quote,  — 

"Ah I  thy  tent-formed  shell  is  like 
The  soldier's  nightly  bivouac,  alone 

Amidst  a  sea  of  blood 

hut  you  can  join  your  comrades^ 

Fallacies  of  Hope. 

These  remarkable  lines  entirely  explain  the  meaning  of 
the  picture ;  another  piece  is  described  by  lines  from  the 
same  poem,  in  a  metre  more  regular :  — 

"  The  midnight  torch  gleamed  o'er  the  steamer's  side, 
And  meriVs  corse  was  yielded  to  the  tide." 

When  the  pictures  are  rehung,  as  sometimes  I  believe  is 
the  case,  it  might  perhaps  be  as  well  to  turn  these  upside 
down,  and  see  how  they  would  look  then ;  the  Campo 
Santo  of  Venice,  when  examined  closely,  is  scarcely  less 
mysterious  ;  at  a  little  distance,  however,  it  is  a  most  bril- 
liant, airy,  and  beautiful  picture.  0  for  the  old  days, 
before  Mr.  Turner  had  lighted  on  "The  Fallacies,"  and 
could  see  like  other  people  ! 

Other  landscape  painters,  not  so  romantic,  are,  as  usual, 
excellent.  You  know  Mr.  Stanfield  and  Mr.  Koberts,  in 
France,  as  well  as  we  do  :  I  wish  one  day  you  could  see  the 
hearty,  fresh  English  landscctpes  of  Lee  and  Creswick, 
where  you  can  almost  see  the  dew  on  the  fresh  grass,  and 
trace  the  ripple  of  the  water,  and  the  whispering  in  the 
foliage  of  the  cool,  wholesome  wind. 

There  is  not  an  inch  more  room  in  the  paper;  and  a 
great  deal  that  was  to  be  said  about  the  Water-color  Soci- 


^iV  EXHlBlTWy    GOSSIP.  219 

eties  and  Suffolk  Street  must  remain  unsaid  for  ever  and 
ever.  But  I  wish  you  could  see  a  drawing  by  Miss  Setchel, 
in  the  Junior  Water-color  Society,  and  a  dozen  by  Mr. 
Absolon,  which  are  delightful  in  grace  and  expression,  and 
in  tender,  pathetic  humor. 

M.  A.  1\ 


220     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 


LETTERS   ON   THE   FINE   AKTS. 
I.  —  The  Art  Unions. 

FROM   M.    A.    TITMARSH,    ESQ.,   TO   SANDERS   m'GILP,    ESQ. 

[Pictorial  Times,  March-May,  1843.] 

My  deal'  Sanders,  —  I  have  always  had  the  highest 
confidence  in  your  judgment,  and  am  therefore  pretty  cer- 
tain that  your  picture  is  one  of  vast  merit.  The  value,  you 
say,  is  two  hundred  guineas,  and  you  have,  I  hope,  with 
laudable  prudence,  induced  your  relatives,  your  grand- 
mother, your  confiding  aunts,  the  tradesmen  with  whom 
you  have  little  accounts,  and  the  friends  with  whom  you 
are  occasionally  kind  enough  to  go  and  dine,  to  subscribe 
to  the  Art  Union,  in  hopes  that  one  or  other  of  them  may 
gain  the  principal  prize,  when  their  taste,  as  well  as  their 
friendship  (and  where  can  friendship  be  better  bestowed  ?  ), 
will  induce  them  to  purchase  your  work.  To  your  rela- 
tives affection  alone  would  dictate  the  acquisition  of  your 
picture ,  to  your  tradesmen  you  offer,  if  possible,  a  still 
stronger  inducement.  "I  owe  you  40Z.,"  you  can  say  to 
Mr.  Snip,  your  respected  tailor;  "I  cannot  pay  those 
40Z. ;  "  but  gam  the  first  prize,  and  you  have  my  picture 
for  200  guineas,  which  in  reality  is  worth  500,  plus  the 
payment  of  your  bill,  the  amount  of  which  you  can  deduct 
from  the  sum  due  to  myself."     Thus  Mr.  Snooks  gets 

£     s.    d. 

A  picture  (valued  at  500  guineas) 525    0    0 

The  payment  of  his  bill 40    0    0 

And  costs  of  writ 220 

£567    2    0 

in  return  for  a  single  sovereign  subscribed  to  the  Union. 

The  advantage  of  Art  Unions  has  never  before,  I  believe, 
been  considered  in  this  light :  and  if  every  artist  would 
but  go  round  to  his  tradesmen  and  represent  the  truth  to 
them  as  here  laid  down,  no  doubt  great  numbers  of  addi- 


LETTERS    OX    THE   FIXE   ARTS.  221 

tional  patrons  would  be  found  for  the  noble  art  you  prac- 
tise. How  many  a  man,  for  instance,  has  not  one  but  half 
a  dozen  tailors  in  the  category  m  which  I  have  placed  Mr. 
Snip.  Well ;  let  them  all  subscribe  ;  —  the  more  the 
merrier.  "  If  one  win,  gentlemen,"  you  say,  "  remember 
I  am  in  a  condition  to  pay  all  the  rest  their  accounts." 
And  thus  is  an  interest  for  Art  brought  home  to  the 
bosoms  and  boards  of  six  deserving  families. 

Is,  or  is  not,  the  principle  a  good  one  ?  Are,  or  are 
not,  tradesmen  to  be  paid  ?  Are,  or  are  not,  artists  to  be 
well  clothed  ?  And  would,  or  would  not,  the  diffusion  of 
their  divine  science  enlarge  the  heart  and  soften  the  rude 
manners  of  the  million  ?  What,  on  this  head,  does  Hesiod 
observe  ?     The  Teian  bard  nobly  remarks,*  — 

Ifyeyvug  didtxiaae  (ftdtjlirfQ  aorr^g^ 
MjuokXiT  /ytij^r^y  lex  aitii  "aae  q:ei)ti)g 

And  if  the  principle  be  a  good  one,  I  say  it  should  be 
universal.  Say  (as  an  encouragement)  to  the  collector  who 
comes  for  your  rate,  "I'll  pay  you  if  you  take  a  ticket  in 
the  Art  Union !^''  Remark  to  your  butcher,  in  a  pleasant 
way,  "  Mr.  lUisket,  I  desire  from  you,  for  your  own  advan- 
tage, one  stake  more."  "  From  the  loin,  or  where  ?  "  says 
he.  "No,"  say  you,  laughingly  interrupting  him,  "a  stake 
in  the  Art  Union.^'  And  point  out  to  your  washerwoman 
what  an  ennobling  and  glorious  thing  it  would  be  —  a  holy 
effluence,  a  bright  and  beaming  radiance  woven  into  the 
dark  chain  of  her  existence  —  (or  other  words  of  might  and 
poesy  suited  to  her  capacity),  point  out,  I  say,  what  a 
pleasure  it  would  be  to  her  to  be  able  to  exclaim,  "  I  wash 
Mr.  M'Gilp's  shirts  —  and  look  !  one  of  his  five  hundred 
guinea  masterpieces  hangs  yonder,  over  my  mangle." 

It  IS  in  his  power,  it  is  in  anybody's  power.  The  very 
Malay  sweeper  who  shivers  at  the  corner  of  your  street  and 
acts  as  3'our  model,  may  easily  save  money  enough  to  take 
a  ticket,  and  have  his  portrait,  as  Othello,  to  decorate  his 
humble  place  of  abode. 

You  may  fancy,  my  friend,  that  there  is  some  caricature 

*  "We  suspect  that  Mr  Titmarsh  is  here  attempting  to  mystif}'  the  un- 
learned reader.  Anacreon,  not  Hesiod.  was  "the  Teian  bard,"  and  it  is 
neither  Hesiod  nor  Anacreon,  but  Ovid,  who  (in  Latin  not  in  Greek 
verse)  "  remarks,"  — 

ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes, 

EmoUit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse  feros.     Ed. 


222     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

in  this,  and  possibly  you  are  right.  You  will  never  stoop 
to  Mr.  Snip  in  the  manner  pointed  out  by  me :  you  are 
above  entreating  your  washerwoman,  cutting  jokes  ^vith 
your  butcher,  or  cajoling  the  respectable  gentleman  who 
calls  for  your  contributions  once  a  quarter.  Art,  say  you, 
is  above  paltry  speculation  and  mean  ideas  of  gain.  An 
artist  never  stoops  to  intrigue,  or  chaffers  for  money.  He 
is  the  priest  of  nature,  called  to  w^orship  at  her  glorious 
altar,  by  special  vocation ;  one  chosen  out  of  the  million, 
and  called  up  to  the  high  places ;  in  short,  you  will  make 
a  speech,  crammed  with  fine  w^ords,  proving  your  disinter- 
estedness and  the  awful  poetical  nature  of  your  calling. 

Psha !  my  good  friend,  let  us  have  no  more  of  this  stale 
talk.  You  are  a  tradesman  as  well  as  my  lord  on  the  wool- 
sack, or  Mr.  Smith  selling  figs,  or  General  Sones  breathing 
freely  and  at  his  ease  in  an  atmosphere  of  cannon-balls. 
You  each  do  your  duty  in  your  calling,  and  according  to 
your  genius,  but  you  want  to  be  paid  for  what  you  do. 
You  want  the  best  pay  and  the  greatest  share  of  reputation 
you  can  get.  You  will  do  nothing  dishonest  in  the  pursuit 
of  your  trade  ;  but  will  you  not  yield  a  little  "  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  public  service  "  ?  General  Sones,  though  he 
may  have  his  own  opinion  of  the  Chinese  war,  will  attack 
mandarins  without  mercy  ;  my  Lord  Chancellor  has  pleaded 
many  a  queer  cause  before  he  reposed  on  yonder  woolsack ; 
Smith  has  had  recourse  to  many  little  harmless  tricks  to 
get  a  sale  for  his  figs  and  treacle ;  and  you  (as  I  take  it) 
are  not  a  whit  better  than  they.  Did  you  ever  paint  a  lady 
in  her  portrait  handsomer  than  nature  made  her  ?  Did  you 
ever,  when  your  immense  genius  panted  to  be  at  work  on 
some  vast  historical  piece,  crush  your  aspirations  so  far  as 
to  sit  down  and  depict  a  plain  gentleman  in  a  buff  waistcoat 
and  a  watch  chain,  for  the  sake  of  the  twenty  guineas 
which  were  to  be  elicited  from  his  ample  pepper-and-salt 
pantaloons  ?  You  have  done  all  this ;  and  were  quite 
right  in  doing  it  too.  How  else  are  the  little  M'Gilps  to 
get  their  dinners,  or  your  lady  the  means  of  discharging 
her  weekly  bills  ? 

And  now  you  will  begin,  I  trust,  to  perceive  that  the 
ridicule  cast  upon  the  Art  Union  system  in  the  first  sen- 
tences of  this  letter,  is  not  in  reality  so  very  severe :  it  is 
the  sort  of  sneering  language  which  the  enemies  of  those 
establishments  are  in  the  habit  of  indulging  in,  though  ex- 
pressed as  high,  no  doubt  you  will  think  in  a  far  more 


I 


LETTERS   ON   THE  FINE  ARTS.  223 

satiric  and  witty  manner  than  most  of  the  Anti-Unionists 
have  at  command.  Hear,  for  instance,  the  Athenceum, 
"So  early,"  says  that  journal,  '-'as  1837,  we  put  on  record 
our  opinion  that  the  Art  Union  would  and  must  of  neces- 
sity tend  to  the  still  further  degradation  of  Art.  Any 
man,"  we  observed,  "  who  purchases  pictures  may  be  pre- 
sumed to  have  a  love  for,  and  this  will  in  the  end  generate 
a  knowledge  of.  Art.  But  there  will  be  many  subscribers 
who  desire  only  a  little  gambling  —  to  risk  a  pound  for  the 
chance  of  winning  a  hundred  —  and  who  would  quite  as 
soon  join  in  a  raffle  for  a  horse,  or  a  snuff-box,  or  a  pipe  of 
port  wine,  as  for  a  picture.  The  motive  of  the  subscriber 
is  of  no  consequence,  so  long  as  others  have  to  dispose  of 
the  money;  but  the  Art  Union  proposes  that  each  sub- 
scriber '  shall  select  for  himself.'  Now  is  it  not  certain 
that  such  patronage  must  tend  to  degrade  Art  ?  The 
scheme  may  be  beneficial  to  the  lowest  class  of  artists,  but 
utterly  ruinous  to  Art  itself.  When  every  individual,  be 
he  ivhom  he  may,  is  allowed  to  follow  his  own  judgment  in 
the  disposal  of  his  prize-money,  the  best  results  can  be  but 
an  irresponsible  indulgence  of  individual  whim  and  caprice 
—  the  worst  and  certain  is  the  degradation  of  Art.  Men 
who  paint  to  live,  instead  of  working  with  all  their  power, 
be  it  more  or  less,  up  to  the  best  and  highest  judgments, 
must  solicit  the  sweet  voices  of  the  uninformed,  the  chance 
prize-holders,  and  therefore  purchasers  of  the  Art  Unions." 

So  writes  the  Athenannn,  and  you  will  at  once  perceive 
the  truth  of  my  previous  assertions  :  —  1.  That  the  Athe- 
nceum's  arguments  resemble  those  employed  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  letter.  2.  That  the  arguments  at  the 
beginning  of  this  letter  are  far  more  cleverly  and  wickedly 
put. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  demolish  the  one  and  the  other  ; 
and  we  will,  if  you  please,  take  the  dicta  of  the  Athenceam 
in  the  first  place  into  consideration. 

"Every  man"  (says  the  Athenamm)  "who  purchases 
pictures  may  be  presumed  to  have  a  love  for,  and  this  will 
in  the  end  generate  a  knowledge  of,  Art." 

"But  this  Art  Union  is  joined  by  many  for  the  sake  of 
gambling,  and  who  would  quite  as  soon  join  in  a  raffle  for 
a  horse,  or  a  snuff-box,  or  a  pipe  of  port  wine,  as  for  a 
picture." 

Why  quite  as  soon  ?  A  man  who  wants  a  pipe  of  port 
wiiie  does  not,  we  presume,  raffle  for  a  horse ;  or  being  ex- 


224     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

cecdingly  desirous  of  a  snuff-mull,  he  does  not  raffle  for  a 
pipe  of  port  wine.  There  are  certainly  in  the  world  many 
'•  uninformed  "  persons,  as  the  insinuating  Athenceum  re- 
marks ;  let  us  say  at  once  there  are  fools,  but  not  such  tre- 
mendous fools  as  our  misanthropic  contemporary  would 
discover. 

No,  no.  A  man  raffles  for  a  horse  because  the  dealers  or 
the  knackers  will  give  him  a  price  for  it,  or  because  his 
wife  wishes  to  be  driven  out  in  the  gig,  or  because  he  has  a 
mind  to  cut  a  dash  in  the  ring.  A  man  raffles  for  a  gold 
snuff-box  because  he  is  fond  of  Macabau,  or  because  he  likes 
to  sport  such  a  box  after  dinner,  or  because  he  wishes  to 
make  it  a  present  to  Mr.  Boys  when  he  brings  out  any  more 
of  his  relative's  lithographs,  or  for  some  other  simple  and 
equally  apparent  reason.  And  so  for  a  pipe  of  port  wine  :  a 
man  risks  his  money  in  order  to  gain  it,  because  he  likes 
port  wine,  or  because  he  can  sell  it,  or  because  he  wishes  to 
present  a  few  dozens  to  a  friend. 

I  wish,  for  my  part,  I  had  a  friend  who  desired  to  dispose 
of  either  of  the  three  articles ;  but  that  is  a  mere  personal 
ejaculation,  and  nothing  to  the  point.  The  point  is,  that  a 
man  bids  money  for  a  horse  because  he  wants  it,  and  for  a 
j^icture  because  he  would  like  to  have  a  picture.  Common 
charity  must  admit  so  much  good  sense  in  the  world. 

Well,  then,  it  is  granted  that  a  man  joins  in  a  raffle  for  a 
set  of  pictures  because  he  is  interested  in  pictures ;  that  is, 
he  viay  be  presumed  to  have  a  love  for  Art.  And  a  love  for 
Art  in  the  end,  says  the  Athenceum,  with  much  sagacity, 
will  generate  a  knoivledge  of  Art.  Amen.  In  that  case  the 
excellence  of  Art  Unions  is  established  at  once. 

But  no,  says  the  philosopher  who  argues  every  week 
from  under  the  columns  of  the  temple  of  Minerva:  this 
love  which  generates  knowledge  is  only  conceded  to  men 
who  purchase  pictures,  not  to  those  who  rafffe  for  them.  Is 
not  this  a  little  hard  ?  How  much  income  tax  must  a  man 
pay  in  order  to  have  a  decent  love  of  Art ;  a  love  that  shall 
be  jDotent  enough  to  become  the  father  of  a  future  knowl- 
edge ?  I  may  say,  without  exaggeration,  that  Sir  Eobert 
Peel  is  richer  than  I  am ;  but  does  it  follow  that  he  loves 
Art  better  ?  It  may  be,  or  not ;  but,  at  least,  the  right 
honorable  baronet's  income  does  not  establish  the  supe- 
riority of  his  taste.  Let  any  gentleman  go  into  a  pastry- 
cook's and  eat  raspberry  tarts ;  ten  to  one,  pressed  against 
the  window  of  the  shop  you  will  see  the  blue  nose  of  a 


LETTERS   ON   THE   FIXE  ARTS.  225 

penniless  urchin,  who  is  looking  at  the  good  things  with  all 
his  might.  Would  one  say  that  Dives,  because  he  eats  the 
tarts,  loved  them  better  than  little  Lazarus  who  yearned 
after  them  ?  No,  even  the  Athenceiuu  would  not  say  that ; 
the  cruel,  cruel  Athenceum. 

Now,  suppose  that  round  that  shop  window,  and  allured 
by  the  same  charming  prospect  which  has  brought  their 
comrade  thither,  other  little  Lazaruses  should  assemble: 
they  love  tarts ;  they  are  penniless ;  but  still  not  alto- 
gether without  coin.  Say  they  have  a  farthing  apiece ;  and 
clubbing  together  their  wealth,  or  poverty  rather,  these 
rascally  young  gamblers  make  a  lottery  in  the  cap  of  one  of 
them,  and  what  is  the  consequence  ?  the  winner  of  the 
prize  steps  in  and  takes  a  raspberry  tart  from  the  very  same 
tray  at  which  great  Dives  himself  has  been  gormandizing. 
It  is  gambling,  certainly  ;  but  T  suspect  the  pastry-cook 
(considering  its  result)  will  look  upon  the  crime  rather 
justly  —  she  might  never  have  sold  her  wares  but  for  that 
Tart  Uxiox. 

I  shall  resume  this  subject  next  week  with  philosophical 
considerations  upon  Polytechnic  societies,  upon  the  lunar 
prospectus  (or  that  of  Mr.  ]\[oon),  and  upon  the  puerile  dis- 
tribution (or  that  of  Mr.  Boys). 

Meanwhile,  dear  M'Gilp,  I  remain. 
Your  very  humble  servant, 

MicuAEL  Angelo  Titmarsh. 


II. — The  Objections  Against  Art  Unions. 

M.    A.    TITMARSH,    ESQ.,    TO   SANDERS   M'GILP,    ESQ. 

My  dear  Sanders,  —  The  Tart  Union  alluded  to  last  week 
has  been  appreciated ;  and  I  am  given  to  understand  that 
several  young  gentlemen  about  Covent  Garden  and  the 
foundation  colleges  in  the  city  (where  the  youthful  stu- 
dents wear  leather  breeches,  and  green  coats,  and  caps 
famous  for  their  similarity  in  shape  to  the  muffin)  have  put 
the  scheme  into  practice,  and  are  very  eager  in  borrowing 
or  begging  farthings  for  the  pastry-cook's  interest  and  their 
own. 

That  the  scheme  will  benefit  the  former  is  clear  :  and 
should  any  of  them  be  inclined,  by  way  of  gratitude,  to 


226     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART, 

forward  to  the  office  of  the  paper  a  proof  i^ate  of  their 
tarts,  there  are  several  juvenile  persons  about  the  premises 
who  will  gladly  give  an  opinion  of  their  merits.  One  of  the 
union  or  distribution  schemes  mentioned  in  our  last  has 
forwarded  proofs  of  its  claims  to  public  favor,  proofs  of  its 
puffs  we  would  say,  but  that  is  a  pun,  and  the  truth  must 
be  told,  let  what  will  come  of  it,  and  we  are  now  solemnly 
met,  my  brave  M'Gilp,  to  discuss  it. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  goodness  or  badness  of  the  prints  in 
question  does  not,  at  least  for  the  sake  of  the  argument, 
matter  a  fig.  Suppose  a  man  (by  means  of  the  electrotype 
of  course)  were  enabled  to  reproduce  a  series  of  copies  from 
the  vignettes  to  ]\Ir.  Catnach's  ballads,  and  charge  a  guinea, 
two  guineas  —  a  thousand  pounds ;  three  farthings,  for 
whitey-brown  proofs  of  the  same.  He  is  quite  free  to  do 
so.  Nobody  need  buy  unless  they  like.  Or  suppose  he 
could  (always  by  means  of  the  electrotype)  produce  India 
paper  proof  plates  of  all  the  Cartoons,  and  sell  them  for  a 
halfpenny.  He  is  quite  as  much  at  liberty  to  do  the  one  as 
the  other ;  and  I  do  believe  that  the  reason  of  fair  dealing 
and  moderate  prices  in  the  world  has  been  not  so  much  the 
honesty  as  the  selfishness  of  our  nature.  We  sell  cheap 
because  no  one  will  buy  else.  We  are  honest  because  no 
one  will  trust  us  unless  they  can  trust  us.  In  a  doubtful 
commerce  with  few  concurrents  and  uncertain  gains,  men 
do  not  unfrequently  cheat.  But  competition  hustles 
roguery  pretty  quickly  out  of  the  market ;  the  swaggering, 
swindling,  lying  impostor  has  no  chance  against  the  burly 
good  sense  of  the  public. 

And  I  must  confess,  for  my  part,  that  if  a  man  has  a 
thirty-guinea  watch  to  raffle  for,  and  thirty  persons  are 
willing  to  subscribe  so  much  amongst  them,  and  try  the 
chance  of  winning  it,  I  see  no  much  greater  harm  in  this 
"union"  than  in  many  other  speculations  where  (of  course) 
chances  exist  of  losing  or  winning.  But  to  moralize  on  the 
Art  Union  case  because  of  this  little  harmless  peddling 
with  guineas,  and  to  say  that  it  provokes  a  spirit  of  gam- 
bling, is  too  hard.  Is  it  altogether  sinful  to  play  a  rubber 
of  whist  at  shilling  points  ?  Does  it  imply  an  abominable 
desire  of  gain  and  a  frightful  perversion  in  the  individual 
who  bets  half  a  crown  on  the  rubber  ?  Are  we  basely  cast 
down  because  we  lose,  or  brutally  exultant  because  we  win, 
half  a  score  shillings  ?  If  it  be  a  deadly  sin,  Heaven  help 
our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  who  played  cards  every 


LETTERS   OX    THE   FINE  ARTS.  227 

night  of  their  lives,  and  must  be  anything  but  comfortable 
now.  But  let  us  hope  that  with  regard  to  the  criminality 
of  the  proceeding  the  Athenwum  is  wrong.  Many  of  us 
have  tried  a  raffle  at  Margate,  and  slept  no  worse  for  it. 
Once,  at  school,  I  drew  lots  with  two  other  boys,  and  the 
prize  was  a  flogging ;  and  it  does  not  much  matter  which 
of  us  won ;  but  the  others  were  not  very  sorry  about  it, 
depend  on  that.  jSTo  ;  let  this  harmless  little  sin  pass.  As 
long  as  it  provokes  no  very  evil  passions,  as  loug  as  the 
pleasure  of  winning  is  great,  and  the  pain  of  losing  small, 
let  gentlemen  and  ladies  have  their  sport,  and  bet  their 
bet,  and  our  moralists  not  altogether  despair.  You  cannot 
say  that  the  Art  Union  supporters  are  actuated  by  a  violent 
or  unwholesome  love  of  gambling;  they  don't  injure  their 
properties  by  the  subscription  of  their  guinea;  they  don't 
absent  themselves  from  home,  contract  dissipated  habits, 
bring  their  wives  and  families  to  ruin.  They  give  a 
guinea,  and  are  not  much  the  better  or  the  worse  for  the  out- 
lay. This  is  an  encouragement  of  lotteries,  the  Athenwum 
may  say,  presently ;  but  indeed  the  objection  is  not  worth 
a  tig.  The  old  lotteries  were  undisguised  robberies.  The 
Art  Unions  are  none.  The  old  lotteries  lived  upon  atro- 
cious lies  and  puffs,  encouraged  silly  people  with  exagger- 
ated notions  of  gam.  The  Art  Union  offers  but  to  ])urchase 
pictures  with  the  aggregate  of  your  money,  and  to  dis- 
tribute the  pictures  so  bought.  There  are  no  falsehoods 
told,  and  no  absurd  lying  baits  held  out. 

A  country  book-club  is  a  lottery,  a  wicked,  gambling 
transaction,  in  which  squires  and  parsons  take  a  part.  A 
house  or  life  assurance  is  a  lottery.  You  take  the  odds 
there  to  win  in  a  certain  event;  and  may  by  very  strait- 
laced  moralists  be  accused  of  "gambling,"  for  so  providing 
against  fortune ;  but  the  Parliament  has  sanctioned  this 
gambling,  and  the  State  draws  a  considerable  profit  from 
it.  An  underwriter  gambles  when  he  insures  a  ship ;  cal- 
culating that  he  has  a  profit  on  the  chances.  A  man  gam- 
bles when  he  buys  stock  to  sell  afterwards,  or  a  newspaper, 
or  a  house,  or  any  other  commodity  upon  which  profit  or 
loss  may  accrue.  In  the  latter  cases,  perhaps,  he  gambles 
as  he  does  at  whist,  knowing  himself  to  be  a  good  player, 
and  trusting  to  skill  and  chance  for  his  success.  But  in 
the  former  cases  the  underwriter  of  the  ship  or  house  has 
no  security ;  it  is  sheer  Kick ;  dependent  on  a  fire  or  a  gale 
of  wind,  with  the  i^ull  of  the  chances  in  his  favor. 


228     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART, 

In  a  commercial  country,  then,  wliere  there  is  so  much 
authorized  gambling  for  profit,  a  little  gambling  for  mere 
amusement's  and  kindness's  sake  may  be  tolerated.  Let  it 
be  allowed  at  any  rate  that  there  is  no  great  criminality  in 
the  Art  Union  species  of  gambling,  and  so  quietly  pass 
over  the  moral  objection  to  the  scheme.  Then  there  has 
been  lately  mooted  in  the  papers  a  legal  objection ;  but 
that  is  not  a  very  frightful  one.  Both  of  the  learned  gen- 
tlemen who  have  been  consulted  and  have  pronounced  for 
and  against  Art  Unions  have  allowed  that  there  is  no 
danger  of  prosecution,  and  that  poor  bugbear  will  frighten 
honest  folks  no  more. 

But  the  strong  objection  is  that  on  the  part  of  some 
artists  of  the  old  school,  who  say  that  the  Art  Union  sys- 
tem deteriorates  art ;  that  it  sets  painters  speculating  upon 
fancy  pieces  to  suit  the  tastes  of  the  prize-holders;  that 
they  think  this  will  be  a  taking  two  hundred  guinea  sub- 
ject, or  that  a  neat  gaudy  piece  that  will  be  sure  to  hook 
something;  and  they  paint  accordingly. 

Now,  let  any  man  who  has  looked  at  English  picture- 
galleries  for  the  last  ten  or  twenty  years  be  called  upon  to 
say  from  his  heart,  whether  there  has  not  been  a  great,  a 
noble  improvement? — whether  there  is  not  infinitely  more 
fancy,  feeling,  poetry,  education  among  artists  as  a  body 
now  than  then  ?  Good  Heavens  !  if  they  do  paint  what  are 
called  subjects,  what  is  the  harm  ?  If  people  do  like  fancy 
pieces,  where  is  the  great  evil  ?  If  I  have  no  fancy  to 
have  my  own  portrait  staring  me  in  the  face  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  would  rather  have  Mr.  Stone's  "one  particular 
star,"  for  instance  (and  it  is  a  charming  picture),  am  I 
such  a  degraded  wretch  ?  This  is  but  cant  on  the  part  of 
humbugs  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  ultra-ticklishness  of 
too  susceptible  minds. 

What  does  the  charge  amount  to  ?  That  the  artist  tries 
by  one  means  or  other  to  consult  the  taste  of  the  public. 
The  public  is  ignorant ;  therefore  its  choice  is  bad :  there- 
fore the  artists  paint  bad  pictures  :  therefore  the  taste 
grows  worse  and  worse  :  therefore  the  public  and  artist 
are  degraded  by  a  desperate  helpless  arithmetical  progres- 
sion, out  of  which  as  one  fancies  there  is  no  escape. 

But  look  what  the  real  state  of  the  case  is,  as  it  has  been 
recited  by  a  weekly  paper  ( the  Age )  —  that  too  moans 
over  the  degeneracy  of  its  namesake,  and  prophesies  a  most 
pathetic  future  for  Englishmen,  because  they  have   been 


LETTERS   ON    THE  FINE  ARTS.  229 

lately  seized  with  a  love  for  illustrated  books.  First,  says 
the  Age,  came  the  Observer,  with  its  picture  of  Thur- 
tell's  cottage,  then  the  Hive,  then  the  Mirror,  then  this 
and  that,  then  the  Illustrated  London  Xeivs,  then  the 
Fictorial  Times.  Well,  apres?  as  the  French  say.  The 
Hive  was  better  than  Thurtell's  cottage,  the  3Tirror  was 
better  than  the  Hive,  the  Neivs  better  than  the  Mirror, 
and  the  Times  better  than  the  News,  and  (though  the 
Times  readers  may  fancy  the  thing  impossible)  the 
day  will  come  when  something  shall  surpass  even  the 
Times,  and  so  on  to  the  intinit}'  of  optimism.  And  so 
with  pictures  as  with  prints.  The  public  is  not  used 
to  having  the  former  yet,  but  wait  a  while  and  it  will 
take  them ;  and  take  them  better  and  better  every  day. 
The  commercial  energy  of  our  hearty  country  is  such  that 
where  there  is  a  small  demand  dealers  well  know  how  to 
raise  it  to  be  a  great  one ;  and  raise  fresh  wants  by  fresh 
supplies  ingeniously  insinuated,  and  by  happy  inventions 
in  ad^'ance.  As  for  GEXIUS,  that  is  not  to  be  spoken  of 
in  this  way ;  but  Genius  is  rare  ;  it  comes  to  us  but  once 
in  many,  many  years ;  and  do  you  think  the  genius  of 
painting  less  likely  to  flourish  in  our  country  because  peo- 
ple are  buying  (by  means  of  these  Art  Unions)  five  hun- 
dred little  fancy  pictures  per  annum,  in  addition  to  the  ten 
thousand  portraits  they  bought  before  ? 

As  for  aristocratic  patronage  of  Art  only  let  us  ask  in 
what  state  was  Art  here  before  Art  Unions  began  ?  Did 
artists  complain  or  not  ?  Did  they  say  that  there  was 
no  opportunity  to  cultivate  their  poetical  feelings,  and 
that  they  must  paint  portraits  to  live  ?  I  am  sure  the 
people  of  England  are  likely  to  be  better  patrons  of  art 
than  the  English  aristocracy  ever  were,  and  that  the  aris- 
tocracy have  been  tried  and  didnH  patronize  it;  that 
thej'  neither  knew  how  to  value  a  picture  nor  an  artist : 
what  artist  ever  got  so  good  a  place  as  a  tenth-rate  lawyer, 
or  as  a  hundredth-rate  soldier,  or  as  a  lucky  physician,  or 
as  an  alderman  who  had  made  a  good  speculation,  or  a 
countr}^  squire  who  had  a  borough  ?  The  aristocracy  never 
acknowledged  the  existence  of  art  in  this  country,  for  they 
never  acknowledged  the  artist.  They  were  the  handsomest 
men  and  women  in  the  world,  and  they  had  their  simpering 
faces  painted  :  but  what  have  the}"  done  for  art  to  honor  it  ? 
No,  no.  They  are  not  the  friends  of  Genius :  that  day  is 
over:  its  friends  lie  elsewhere ;  rude  i^nd  uncultivated  as  yet, 


230     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

but  hearty,  generous,  and  eager.  It  may  put  up  with  rough 
fare ;  but  it  can't  live  in  ante-chambers  with  lackeys,  eat- 
ing my  lord's  broken  meat ;  equality  is  its  breath,  and  sym- 
jjathy  the  condition  of  its  existence.  What  sympathy  did 
my  lords  ever  give  it  ?  No :  the  law,  the  sword,  the  alder- 
man's consols,  and  the  doctor's  pill,  they  can  stomach ;  they 
can  reconcile  these  to  their  lordly  nature,  and  infuse  them 
into  their  august  body. 

But  the  Poet  had  best  come  lower.  What  have  their 
lordships  to  do  with  him  ?  He  has  never  been  one  of  their 
intimates.  In  the  old  song  of  Schiller,  Love  bids  the  poet, 
now  that  the  earth  is  partitioned  among  the  strong  and 
wealthy,  to  come  to  heaven  in  his  distress,  in  which  there 
will  always  be  a  place  for  him :  but  he  has  to  try  the  peo- 
ple 3' et  —  the  weak  and  poor :  and  they,  whose  union 
makes  their  strength;  depend  on  it,  have  a  shelter  and  a 
welcome  for  him. 

And  so,  though  the  taste  of  the  public  might  be  better 
than  it  is  now  (of  which  there  is  no  question),  I  think  we 
have  every  right  to  hope  that  it  will  be  better.  There  are 
a  thousand  men  read  and  think  to-day,  for  one  who  read  on 
this  same  day  of  April,  1743.  The  poet  and  artist  is  called 
upon  to  appeal  to  the  few  no  longer.  His  profit  and  fame 
are  with  the  many  ;  and  do  not  let  it  be  thought  irreverence 
to  put  the  profit  and  fame  together.  Nobody  ever  denies 
the  Duke  of  Wellington's  genius,  because  his  Grace  receives 
twenty  thousand  a  year  from  his  country  in  gratitude  for 
the  services  rendered  by  him ;  and  if  the  nation  should 
take  a  fancy  to  reward  poets  in  the  same  way,  we  have 
similarly  no  right  to  quarrel  with  the  verdict. 

The  dukedoms,  twenty-thousands-a-year,  Piccadilly-pal- 
aces, and  the  like,  are  not,  however,  pleaded  for  here.  Miss 
Coutts  or  Miss  Kothschild  have  the  like  (or  may,  no  doubt, 
for  the  asking),  and  nobody  grudges  the  wealth,  though 
neither  ever  were  in  the  battle  of  Waterloo  that  I  know  of. 
But  let  us  ask,  as  the  condition  of  improvement  in  art,  if 
not  fame  and  honor,  at  least  sympathy,  from  the  public  for 
the  artist.  The  refinement  of  taste  will  come  afterwards ; 
and  as  every  man  a  little  conversant  with  the  art  of  paint- 
ing, or  any  other  art,  must  know  how  his  judgment  improves, 
and  how  by  degrees  he  learns  to  admire  justly,  so  the  pub- 
lic will  learn  to  admire  more  and  more  wisely  every  day. 
The  sixpenny  prints  they  buy  twenty  years  hence  will  be 
better  than  the  sixpenny  prints  now  :  the  Art  Union  pictures 


LETTERS   ON   THE   FINE   ARTS.  231 

they  select  better  than  those  which  frighten  the  despond- 
ing susceptibilities  of  our  philosophers  nowadays.  Away 
with  these  prophets  of  ill,  these  timid  old  maids  of  Cassan- 
dras,  who  lift  up  their  crutches  and  croak,  and  cry,  "  Woe  !  ■' 
It  is  the  nature  of  the  old  bodies  to  despond,  but  let  "us 
youth  "  be  not  frightened  by  their  prate.  If  any  publisher 
could  find  it  worth  his  while  to  bring  out  a  hundred  beau- 
tiful engravings  for  a  penny,  depend  on  it  art  would  not 
retrograde  in  the  country.  If  a  hundred  thousand  people 
chose  to  subscribe  to  the  Art  Union,  the  interest  for  art 
would  be  so  much  the  greater,  the  encouragement  to  artists 
so  much  the  greater ;  and  if  you  interest  the  people  and 
encourage  the  artists,  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  one  or 
the  other  would  go  back. 

But  this,  as  you  will  doubtless  observe,  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  lunatic  prospectus  (or  that  of  INIr.  Moon),  or 
with  the  puerile  distribution  (or  that  of  Mr.  Boys).  Let 
us  consider  the  sham  Art  Unions  on  another  da}*.  What  I 
wish  to  urge  in  the  above  sentences  is,  that  the  people  are 
the  artist's  best  friends ;  that  for  his  reputation  and  profit 
henceforth  he  had  best  look  to  them  ;  and  rather  than  work 
for  a  class  of  patrons,  he  had  better  rely  for  support  on  his 
friends.  If  you  have  something  that  is  worth  the  telling, — 
something  for  tlie  good  of  mankind,  —  it  is  better  to  be  able 
to  take  it  to  a  hundred  tailors  or  tinkers,  than  to  one  duke 
or  two  dandies  (speaking  with  perfect  respect  of  both) ; 
and  as  an  actor  would  rather  have  a  hundred  peojde  in  the 
pit  for  an  audience  than  but  one  hearer  who  had  paid  ten 
pounds  for  a  private  box,  an  artist  need  have  no  squeamish 
objections  to  the  same  popularity,  and  will  find  a  more  sure 
and  lasting  profit  in  it.  i\Iany  men  of  genius  will  say, 
"No;  we  do  not  want  the  applause  of  the  vulgar;  give  us 
the  opinion  of  the  few."*  Who  prevents  them  ?  They  have 
these  few  as  before ;  but  because  the  artist  of  a  lower  walk 
changes  his  patron,  and,  instead  of  catering  for  the  private 
boxes,  appeals  to  the  pit,  there  is  no  harm  done.  The  pit, 
it  is  my  firm  belief,  knows  just  as  much  about  the  matter 
in  question  as  the  boxes  know ;  and  now  you  have  made 
art  one  of  the  wants  of  the  public,  you  will  find  the  pro- 
viders of  the  commodity  and  its  purchasers  grow  more  re- 
fined in  their  tastes  alike  ;  and  the  popular  critic  of  a  few 
years  hence  calling  for  good  pictures,  when  now  bad  ones 
please  him. 

How  should  he  know  better  as  yet  ?     His  betters  have 


232       CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

taught  him  to  admire  Books  of  Beauty,  trashy,  flashy,  cor- 
onation pictures,  and  the  like  tawdry  gimcracks,  which 
please  a  feeble  intellect  and  a  debauched  taste.  Give  him 
time,  and  he  will  learn  to  like  better  things.  And  for  the 
artist  himself,  will  he  not  gain  by  bringing  to  the  public 
market  the  article  which  he  was  obliged  before  to  prepare 
for  individual  patronage  ?  He  has  made  many  more  sacri- 
fices to  the  latter,  than  ever  he  will  be  called  upon  to  do 
for  the  former.  His  independence  does  not  suffer  by  honest 
barter  in  the  public  place,  any  more  than  an  author's  does 
who  takes  his  wares  to  the  bookseller  or  newspaper,  and 
asks  and  gets  his  price.  The  writer  looks  to  my  lord  no 
longer,  but  has  found  a  better  and  surer  friend  :  and  so  for 
art ;  I  would  like  to  see  Art  Unions  all  over  England,  from 
London  to  Little  Peddlington  :  every  one  of  the  subscribers 
become  interested  in  a  subject  about  which  he  has  not 
thought  hitherto,  and  which  was  kept  as  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  his  betters. 

The  Spectator  has  an  excellent  suggestion  with  regard 
to  Art  Unions,  I  think  ;  which  is,  that  a  committee  should 
purchase  pictures  with  the  funds  of  the  Union,  and  that  the 
prize-holder  should  then  choose.  Bad  pictures  would  not, 
probably,  be  bought  in  this  way,  and  the  threatened  degra- 
dation of  art  would  then  be  averted.  Perhaps  the  majority 
of  the  present  Unionists,  however,  would  not  accede  to 
this  plan,  and  prefer  to  choose  their  pictures  for  themselves. 
Well :  let  them  keep  to  the  old  plan,  and  let  us  have 
another  Art  Union  as  the  new.  The  more  the  better  —  the 
more  real  Unions :  as  for  the  sham  ones,  we  will  discourse 
of  these  anon.  Yours,  my  dear  M'Gilp, 

M.    A.    TiTMARSH. 

P.S.  I  hope  your  Cartoon  is  in  a  state  of  forwardness  : 
we  shall  see  in  a  month  or  two  what  the  giants  of  art  can 
do.  But  meanwhile  do  not  neglect  your  little  picture  out 
of  Gil  Bias  or  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (of  course  it  is  from 
one  or  the  other).  Let  those  humble  intellects  which  can 
only  understand  common  feeling  and  e very-day  life  have 
too  their  little  gentle  gratifications.  Why  should  not  the 
poor  in  spirit  be  provided  for  as  well  as  the  tremendous 
geniuses  ?  If  a  child  take  a  fancy  to  a  penny  theatrical 
print,  let  him  have  it ;  if  a  workman  want  a  green  parrot 
with  a  bobbing  head  to  decorate  his  humble  mantel-piece, 
let  us  not  grudge  it  to  him ;  and  if  an  immense  superemi- 


LETTERS   ON   THE   FINE  ARTS.  233 

nent  intelligence  cannot  satisfy  his  poetical  craving  with 
anything  less  sublime  than  Milton,  or  less  vast  than  Michael 
Angelo,  —  all  I  can  say  for  my  part  is,  that  I  wish  he  may 
get  it.  The  kind  and  beneficent  Genius  of  Art  has  pleas- 
ures for  all  according  to  their  degree ;  and  spreads  its 
harmless  happy  feast  for  big  and  little  —  for  the  Titanic 
appetite  that  can't  be  satisfied  with  less  than  a  roasted 
elephant,  as  well  as  for  the  small  humble  cock-robin  of  an 
intellect  that  can  sing  its  little  grace  and  make  its  meal  on 
a  bread-crumb. 


III.  —  The   Royal   Academy. 

3Ii/  dear  M^GUp,  —  I  think  every  succeeding  year  shows 
a  progress  in  the  English  school  of  painters.  They  paint 
from  the  heart  more  than  of  old,  and  less  from  the  old 
heroic,  absurd,  incomprehensible,  unattainable  rules.  They 
look  at  Nature  very  hard,  and  match  her  with  the  best  of 
their  eyes  and  ability.  They  do  not  aim  at  such  great 
subjects  as  heretofore,  or  at  subjects  which  the  world  is 
pleased  to  call  great,  viz.,  tales  from  Hume  or  Gibbon  of 
royal  personages  under  various  circumstances  of  battle, 
murder,  and  sudden  death.  Lempriere,  too,  is  justly  neg- 
lected ;  and  Milton  has  quite  given  place  to  Gil  Bias  and 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

The  heroic,  and  peace  be  with  it !  has  been  deposed ;  and 
our  artists,  in  place,  cultivate  the  pathetic  and  the  familiar. 
But  a  few,  very  few,  worshippers  of  the  old  gods  remain. 
There  are  only  two  or  three  specimens  in  the  present  exhi- 
bition of  the  grand  historic  style.  There  is  a  huge  dun-col- 
ored picture  in  the  large  room,  by  an  Academician  probably  ; 
but  I  have  neither  the  name  nor  the  subject :  there  is  Mr. 
Haydon's  history-piece  of  the  Maid  of  Saragossa  —  a  great, 
coarse,  vulgar,  ill-drawn,  ill-painted  caricature ;  and  an 
allegory  or  two  by  other  artists,  in  the  old-fashioned  style. 

The  younger  painters  are  content  to  exercise  their  art  on 
subjects  far  less  exalted :  a  gentle  sentiment,  an  agreeable, 
quiet  incident,  a  tea-table  tragedy,  or  a  bread-and-butter 
idyl,  suffices  for  the  most  part  their  gentle  powers.  Nor 
surely  ought  one  to  quarrel  at  all  with  this  prevalent  mode. 
It  is  at  least  natural,  which  the  heroic  was  not.  Bread  and 
butter  can  be  digested  by  every  man ;  whereas  Prometheus 
on  his  rock,  or  Orestes  in  his  strait-waistcoat,  or  Hector 
dragged   behind  Achilles'  car,  or  ^*  Britannia,  guarded  b}' 


234      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Religion  and  Neptune,  welcoming  General  Tomkins  in  the 
Temple  of  Glory  "  —  the  ancient  heroic,  allegorical  subjects 
—  can  be  supposed  deeply  to  interest  very  few  of  the 
inhabitants  of  this  city  or  kingdom.  We  have  wisely  gi\  en 
up  pretending  that  we  were  interested  in  such,  and  confess 
a  partiality  for  more  simple  and  homely  themes. 

The  Exhibition  rooms  are  adorned  with  numberless  very 
pleasing  pictures  in  this  quiet  taste.  Mr.  Leslie  offers  up 
to  our  simple  household  gods  a  Vicar  of  Wakefield ;  Mr. 
Maclise  presents  a  Gil  Bias ;  Mr.  Redgrave  gently  depicts 
the  woes  of  a  governess  who  is  reading  a  black-edged  note, 
and  the  soft  sorrows  of  a  country  lass  going  to  service  ;  Mr. 
Stone  has  the  last  appeal  of  a  rustic  lover ;  Mr.  Charles 
Landseer  has  a  party  drinking  comfortably  under  the  trees ; 
Mr.  Macnee  shows  us  a  young  person  musing  in  a  quiet 
nook,  and  thinking  over  her  love. 

All  these  subjects,  it  will  be  observed,  are  small  subjects ; 
but  they  are  treated,  for  the  most  part,  with  extraordinary 
skill.  As  for  Lady  Blarney,  in  Mr.  Leslie's  picture,  with 
that  wonderful  leer  of  her  wicked,  squinting,  vacant  eyes, 
she  is  as  good  as  the  very  best  Hogarth ;  her  face  is  the 
perfection  of  comedy ;  and  the  honest  primrose  counte- 
nances round  about,  charming  for  their  simplicity  and  rich, 
kindly  humor.  The  Malade  Imaginaire  is  no  less  excellent; 
more  farcical  and  exaggerated  in  the  arrangement;  but  the 
play  is  farcical  and  exaggerated ;  and  the  picture,  as  the 
play,  is  full  of  jovial,  hearty  laughter.  No  artist  possesses 
this  precious  quality  of  making  us  laugh  kindly,  so  much 
as  Mr.  Leslie.  There  is  not  the  least  gall  or  satire  in  it, 
only  sheer,  irresistible  good  humor. 

Now  in  the  tableau  by  Mr.  Maclise,  many  of  the  princi- 
pal personages  are  scowling,  or  ogling,  or  grinning,  and 
showing  their  teeth,  with  all  their  might;  and  yet  the 
spectator,  as  I  fancy,  is  by  no  means  so  amused  as  by  those 
more  quiet  actors  in  Mr.  Leslie's  little  comedies.  There 
is,  especially  in  Mr.  Maclise's  company,  one  young  fellow 
who  ought  to  be  hissed,  or  who  should  have  humble  parts 
to  act,  and  not  be  thrust  forward  in  the  chief  characters  as 
he  has  been  of  late  years,  with  his  immense  grinning 
mouthful  of  white  teeth  and  knowing,  leering  eyes.  The 
ladies  we  have  seen,  too,  repeatedly,  and  it  must  be  con- 
fessed they  are  not  of  the  high  comedy  sort.  The  charac- 
ters appear  to  be,  as  it  were,  performing  a  tableau  from 
Gil  Bias,  not  the  actual  heroes  or  heroines  of  that  easy, 
jovial  drama. 


LETTERS    ON   THE   FIXE   ARTS.  235 

As  for  the  "  properties  "'  of  the  piece,  to  use  the  dramatic 
])hrase,  they  are  admirably  rich  and  correct.  The  painter's 
skill  in  representing  them  is  prodigious.  The  plate,  the 
carvings,  the  wine-flasks,  the  poor  old  melancholy  monkey 
on  his  perch,  the  little  parrots,  the  carpet,  are  painted  with 
a  truth  and  dexterity  quite  marvellous,  and  equal  the  most 
linished  productions  of  the  Dutch  schools.  Terburg  never 
painted  such  a  carpet;  every  bit  of  plate  is  a  curiosity 
of  truthful  representation.  This  extraordinary  power  of 
minute  representation  is  shown  in  another  picture  by  Mr. 
Maclise,  the  Cornish  Waterfall,  round  which  every  leaf  in 
every  tree  is  depicted,  and  in  which  the  iigure  of  the  girl 
is  a  delightful  specimen  of  the  artist's  graphic  power. 

Mr.  Redgrave's  '•  Going  to  Service  "  is  not  so  well  drawn 
as  his  pictures  of  former  years.  An  old  lady  in  an  arm- 
chair, two  young  sisters  embracing  each  other,  a  brother 
very  stiff  and  solemn  in  a  smock-frock,  and  a  wagon  wait- 
ing outside,  tell  the  story  of  this  little  domestic  comedy. 
It  has  a  milk-and-watery  pathos.  The  governess  has  her 
bread  and  butter  by  her  side,  too ;  but  the  picture  is  much 
better,  the  girl's  figure  extremely  beautiful  and  graceful, 
and  the  adjuncts  of  the  picture  are  painted  with  extreme 
care  and  skill. 

Mr.  Stone's  '*  Last  Appeal  "  is  beautiful.  It  is  evidently 
the  finish  of  the  history  of  the  two  young  people  who  are 
to  be  seen  in  the  Water-color  Exhibition.  There  the  girl 
is  smiling  and  pleased,  and  there  is  some  hope  still  for  the 
pale,  earnest  young  man  who  loves  her  with  all  his  might. 
But  between  the  two  pictures,  between  Pall  jNIall  and  the 
Trafalgar  Column,  sad  changes  have  occurred.  The  young 
woman  has  met  a  great  big  life-guardsman,  probably,  who 
has  quite  changed  her  views  of  things :  and  you  see  that 
the  last  appeal  is  made  without  any  hope  for  the  appellant. 
The  girl  hides  away  her  pretty  face  and  we  see  that  all  is 
over.  She  likes  the  poor  fellow  well  enough,  but  it  is  only 
as  a  brother :  her  heart  is  with  the  life-guardsman,  who  is 
strutting  down  the  lane  at  this  moment  with  his  laced  cap 
on  one  ear,  cutting  the  buttercups'  heads  off  with  his  rattan 
cane.  The  whole  story  is  told,  without,  alas  !  the  possibil- 
ity of  a  mistake,  and  the  young  fellow  in  the  gray  stock- 
ings has  nothing  to  do  but  to  jump  down  the  wall,  at  the 
side  of  which  he  has  been  making  his  appeal. 

The  painting  of  this  picture  is  excellent :  the  amateur 
will  not  fail  to  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  drawing,  the 


236     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

care,  and  at  the  same  time  freedom,  of  the  execution,  and  a 
number  of  excellences  of  method  which  are  difficult  to  be 
described  in  print,  except  in  certain  technical  terms  that 
are  quite  unsatisfactory  to  the  general  reader. 

Mr.  Charles  Landseer's  Monks  of  Eubrosi  is  the  best, 
perhaps,  of  his  pictures.  The  scene  is  extremely  cheerful, 
fresh,  and  brilliant ;  the  landscape  almost  as  good  as  the 
figures,  and  these  are  all  good.  Two  grave-looking,  aristo- 
cratic fathers  of  the  abbey  have  been  fly-fishing ;  a  couple 
of  humbler  brethren  in  brown  are  busy  at  a  hamper  of  good 
things ;  a  gallant  young  sportsman  in  green  velvet  lies  on 
the  grass  and  toasts  a  pretty  lass  that  is  somehow  waiting 
upon  their  reverences.  The  picture  is  not  only  good,  but 
has  the  further  good  quality  of  being  pleasant ;  and  some 
clever  artist  will  do  no  harm  in  condescending  so  far  to 
suit  the  general  taste.  There  is  no  reason  after  all  why  a 
man  should  not  humble  himself  to  this  extent,  and  make 
friends  with  the  public  patron. 

For  instance,  take  Mr.  Poole's  picture  of  Solomon  Eagle 
and  the  plague  of  London.  It  is  exceedingly  clever ;  but 
who  would  buy  such  a  piece  ?  Figures  writhe  over  the 
picture  blue  and  livid  with  the  plague  —  some  are  dying  in 
agony  —  some  stupid  with  pain.  You  see  the  dead-cart  in 
the  distance ;  and  in  the  midst  stands  naked  Solomon,  with 
bloodshot  eyes  and  wild,  maniacal  looks,  preaching  death, 
woe,  and  judgment.  Where  should  such  a  piece  hang  ?  It 
is  too  gloomy  for  a  hospital,  and  surely  not  cheerful  enough 
for  a  dining-room.  It  is  not  a  religious  picture  that  would 
serve  to  decorate  the  walls  of  a  church.  A  very  dismal, 
gloomy  conventicle  might  perhaps  be  a  suitable  abode  for 
it ;  but  would  it  not  be  better  to  tempt  the  public  with 
something  more  good-humored? 

Of  the  religious  pieces  Mr.  Herbert's  "Woman  of  Sa- 
maria" will  please  many  a  visitor  to  the  Exhibition,  on  ac- 
count of  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  head  and  figure  of 
the  Saviour.  The  woman,  as  I  thought,  was  neither  beau- 
tiful nor  graceful.  Mr.  Eastlake's  "  Hagar  "  is  beautiful 
as  everything  else  by  this  accomplished  artist ;  but  here, 
perhaps,  the  beauty  is  too  great,  and  the  pain  not  enough. 
The  scene  is  not  represented  with  its  actual  agony  and 
despair ;  but  this  is,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  limning  to  remind 
you  of  the  scene ;  a  piece  of  mystical  poetry  with  Ishmael 
and  Hagar  for  the  theme.  I  must  confess  that  Mr.  Lin- 
nell's  "  Supper  at  Emmaus  "  did  not  strike  me  as  the  least 


LETTERS   ON   THE  FINE   ARTS.  237 

mystical  or  poetical,  and  that  !Mr.  Etty's  ■' Entombment " 
was  anything  but  holy  and  severe.  Perhaps  the  most  pious 
and  cliarming  head  in  the  whole  Exhibition  is  that  of 
the  Queen,  by  .Mr.  Leslie,  in  his  Coronation  picture;  it  has 
a  delightful  modesty  and  a  purity  quite  angelical. 

Mr.  Etty's  pictures  of  the  heathen  sort  are  delightful ; 
wonderful  for  a  gorgeous  flush  of  color,  such  as  has  be- 
longed, perhaps,  to  no  painter  since  Eubens.  But  of  these 
we  will  discourse  next  week. 

M.  A.  TiTMARSH. 

IV.  —  The  Koyal  Academy  (Second  Notice). 

My  dear  M^Gilp,  —  If  Her  Majesty  is  the  purchaser  of 
all  the  royal  pictures  by  Parris,  by  Hayter,  by  Leslie,  by 
Laudseer,  —  of  all  the  royal  portraits,  by  these  and  a  score 
more,  in  and  out  of  the  Academy,  —  there  must  be  a  pretty 
large  gallery  at  Buckingham  Palace  b}'  this  time,  and,  let 
it  be  said  with  resjjcct,  a  considerable  sameness  in  the  col- 
lection. The  royal  face  is  a  very  handsome  one,  and 
especially  in  the  medallion  shape,  in  gold.  I  would  like  to 
look  at  thousands  of  them  every  week  for  my  part,  and 
would  never  tire  in  extending  my  cabinet. 

But  confess,  my  dear  sir,  are  we  not  beginning  to  have 
enough  of  royal-parade  pictures  ?  And  are  not  the  hum- 
bler classes  somewhat  tired  of  them  ?  Only  the  publishers 
and  the  grandees,  their  enlightened  patrons,  still  continue 
to  admire.  Dark  rooms  are  still  prepared  for  such ;  gas-jets 
and  large  subscription  books  artfully  laid  on  and  out.  The 
Court  Guide  still  goes  to  see  Winterhalter's  portrait  of  the 
Queen  ("  I  wish  they  may  get  it,"  as  the    D — ch — ss   of 

observes  ;  the  picture  is  not  painted  by  Winterhalter : 

but  what  do  thei/  know,  whether  it  be  good  or  bad  ?). 
The  Court  Guide  still  buys  huge  proofs  of  her  Majesty's 
marriage,  or  the  Princess's  christening,  or  the  real  author- 
ized Coronation  picture  (every  one  of  the  half-dozen  are 
real  authorized  Coronation  pictures),  and  is  content  there- 
with. Ah !  Heaven  bless  that  elegant  aristocracy  of  Eng- 
land ;  that  wise,  that  enlightened,  that  noble  class  of  our 
betters  !  The  subject  of  these  pictures  is  worthy  of  their 
noble  souls  —  fit  for  their  vast  comprehensions  ;  and  as  the 
poor  workman  buys  his  prints  of  the  Prodigal  Son's  progress, 
the  young  cockney-buck  his  portrait  of  Mrs.  Honey,  or  some 
other  beauty  with  long  ringlets  and  short  petticoats,  the 


238     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

sporting  man  his  varnished  hunting-piece,  so  the  great  have 
their  likings,  and  we  judge  them  by  what  they  admire. 

And  what  an  admiration  theirs  is  !  There's  her  Majesty 
in  state !  what  a  lovely  white  satin !  and  the  velvet,  my 
dear,  painted  to  the  very  life.  Every  single  jewel's  a  por- 
trait, I  give  you  my  honor ;  and  Prince  Albert's  own  star 
and  garter  sat  to  the  artist ;  the  archbishop's  wig  is  done  to 
a  hair;  and  was  there  ever  a  more  wonderful  piece  of  art 
than  that  picture  of  the  duke  in  his  orders  and  his  epaulets, 
and  his  white  kerseymere  pantaloons  ?  Kound  the  Sover- 
eign are  all  the  maids  of  honor;  round  the  maids  of  honor 
all  the  officers  of  state ;  round  the  officers  of  state  all  the 
beef-eaters  and  gentlemen-at-arms :  and  on  these  magnifi- 
cent subjects  our  best  painters  are  continually  employed. 
Noble  themes  for  the  exercise  of  genius  !  brilliant  proofs 
of  enlightened  public  taste  !  The  court-milliners  must  be 
proud  to  think  that  their  works  are  thus  immortalized,  and 
the  descendants  of  our  tailors  will  look  at  these  pieces  with 
a  justifiable  family  pride. 

Mr.  Leslie  has  had  to  chronicle  coats  and  satin-slips  in 
this  way,  and  has  represented  his  sense  in  the  drama  of  the 
coronation  (how  many  more  episodes  of  the  same  piece  have 
been  represented,  and  by  how  many  more  painters  I  don't 
know),  and  his  picture  is  so  finely  done,  so  full  of  beauty 
and  grandeur,  that  for  once  a  court  picture  has  been  made 
interesting.  I  have  remarked  on  the  principal  feature 
before  —  the  exquisite  grace  and  piety  represented  in  the 
countenance  and  attitude  of  the  Queen ;  but  the  judgment 
of  the  quality,  as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  gather  it  (and 
it  is  good  to  this  end  to  play  the  spy's  part,  and  overhear 
the  opinions  of  the  genteel  personages  who  come  to  see  the 
Exhibition),  —  the  genteel  judgment  is  decidedly  against 
the  painter,  and  his  portraits  are  pronounced  to  be  failures, 
and  his  picture  quite  inferior  to  many  others  by  other  hands. 
Let  us  hope  the  opinion  will  be  so  general,  that  this  charming 
painter  shall  never  be  called  upon  to  paint  at  court  ceremony 
again.  I  would  rather  see  honest  Mrs.  Primrose's  portrait 
by  him,  than  that  of  the  loveliest  lady  of  honor ;  and  the  de- 
picting of  uniforms,  and  lappets,  and  feathers  left  to  those 
politer  artists  whose  genius  is  suited  to  subjects  so  genteeL 

There  is  no  Prince  Albert  this  year,  I  regret  to  say ;  but 
we  have  two  portraits  of  her  Majesty,  in  trains,  velvets, 
arm-chairs,  etc.  —  one  by  the  President  and  one  by  Mr. 
Grant,  and  neither  worth  a  crown-piece.     One  of  the  most 


LETTERS   ON   THE  FINE  ARTS.  239 

exquisite  and  refined  little  sketches  ever  seen  is  the  portrait 
of  Lady  Lyttelton  by  the  latter  artist;  it  is  a  delightful 
picture  of  a  beautiful  and  high-bred  maiden.  Mr.  Chalon's 
aristocracy  does  not  ogle  and  simper  quite  so  much  as  in 
former  years ;  and  their  ladyships  are  painted  with  all 
the  artist's  accustomed  skill.  Mr.  Richmond's  heads  are 
excellent  as  usual ;  and  there  is  a  rival  to  these  gentlemen, 
who  has  given  us  a  water-color  portrait  of  the  Bishop  of 
Exeter,  in  which  the  amiable  and  candid  features  of  that 
learned  prelate  are  depicted  with  great  fidelity  and  talent. 
Mr.  Carrick's  men-miniatures  are  perhaps  the  best  among 
those  pleasing  performances :  the  likeness  of  a  former  sec- 
retary for  Ireland  will  especially  please  those  who  know  his 
lordship's  countenance,  and  those  who  do  not,  by  its  resem- 
blance to  an  eminent  comedian  whose  absence  from  the  stage 
all  regret.  j\[r.  Thornburn  cultivates  more,  perhaps,  than  any 
other  miniature  painter  the  poetry  of  his  art.  The  gallant 
knights  Sir  Ross  and  Sir  Newton  are  as  victorious  as  usual ; 
and  Mr.  Lover's  head  of  Mr.  Lever  deserves  praiseworthy 
mention :  it  will  be  looked  at  with  interest  by  Harry  Lor- 
requer's  English  readers,  and  by  those  who  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  him  in  the  body,  and  hearing  his  manly  and 
kind-hearted  speech  at  the  Literary  Fund  the  other  day. 

Of  Mr.  Etty's  color  pieces  what  words  can  give  an  idea  ? 
Many  lovers  of  Titian  and  Rubens  will  admit  that  here  is 
an  English  painter  who  almost  rivals  them  in  his  original 
way,  and  all  will  admire  their  magnificent  beauty.  Mr. 
Turner,  our  other  colorist,  is  harder  to  be  understood.  The 
last  time  the  gentle  reader  received  a  black  eye  at  school, 
and  for  a  moment  after  the  delivery  of  the  blow,  when 
flashes  of  blue,  yellow,  and  crimson  lightning  blazed  before 
the  ball  so  preternaturally  excited,  he  saw  something  not 
unlike  the  Moses  of  ^Ir.  Turner.  His  picture  of  Cleopatra 
meeting  Alexander  the  Great  at  Moscow,  the  morning  be- 
fore the  Deluge  (perhaps  this  may  not  be  the  exact  title, 
but  it  will  do  as  well  as  another),  is  of  the  most  transcen- 
dental sort.  The  quotations  from  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope  " 
continue  still  in  great  force :  as  thus  — 

"  The  Ark  stood  firm  on  Ararat :  tlie  returning  Sun 
Exhaled  Earth's  humid  bubbles,  and,  emulous  of  light, 
Reflected  her  lost  forms,  each  in  prismatic  guise, 
Hojie's  harbinger,  ephemeral  as  the  summer  fly, 
Which  rises,  flits,  expands,  and  dies." 

Fallacies  of  Hope. 

The  artist  has  done  full  justice  to  these  sweet  lines. 


240      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

We  are  given  to  understand  by  cognoscenti  that  the 
Italian  skies  are  always  of  the  bluest  cobalt;  hence  many 
persons  are  dissatisfied  with  Mr.  Stanfield's  Italian  land- 
scapes as  unfaithful,  because  deficient  in  the  proper  depth 
of  ultramarine.  On  this  subject  let  proper  judges  speak; 
but  others  less  qualified  will  find  the  pictures  beautiful, 
and  more  beautiful  for  their  quiet  and  calm.  Who  can 
praise  Mr.  Creswick  sufiiciently  ?  The  Welsh  girl  will, 
one  of  these  days,  fetch  a  sum  of  money  as  great  as  ever 
was  given  for  Hobbema  or  Ruysdael ;  and  "  Evening  "  is  an 
English  Claude.  Mr.  Lee's  fresh  country  landscapes  will 
find  hundreds  of  admirers  ;  and  perhaps  there  are  no  two 
prettier  little  pictures  in  the  gallery  than  Mr.  Linton's 
"  Sorrento  "  and  Mr.  Jutsum's  "  Tintern." 

In  walking  round  the  vault  in  which  the  sculpture  is  en- 
tombed, I  did  not  see  anything  especially  worthy  of  mark, 
except  a  bust  of  Count  d'Orsay,  who  has  himself  broken 
ground  as  an  artist,  and  whose  genius  will  one  day  no 
doubt  make  its  way.  Why  have  we  not  our  common  share 
of  the  admirable  pictures  of  Mr.  Edwin  Landseer  ?  It  can't 
be  that  a  man  of  his  facility  has  painted  but  three  pictures 
in  a  year,  and  picture  lovers  wonder  where  the  rest  are. 

M.  A.  TiTMARSH. 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  241 


MAY   GAMBOLS;    OR,   TITMARSH   i:^   THE 
PICTURE   GALLERIES. 

[Fraser's  Magazine,  June,  1844.] 

The  readers  of  this  miscellan}-  may,  perhaps,  have  re- 
marked that  ahvays,  at  the  ]May  season  and  the  period  of 
the  exhibitions,  oar  eccentric  correspondent  Titmarsh  seems 
to  be  seized  with  a  double  fit  of  eccentricit}',  and  to  break 
out  into  such  violent  fantastical  gambols  as  might  cause  us 
to  be  alarmed  did  we  not  know  him  to  be  harmless,  and  in- 
duce us  to  doubt  of  his  reason  but  that  the  fit  is  generally 
brief,  and  passes  off  after  the  first  excitement  occasioned 
by  visiting  the  picture  galleries.  It  was  in  one  of  these 
fits  some  years  since,  that  he  announced  in  this  Magazine 
his  own  suicide,  which  we  know  to  be  absurd,  for  he  has 
drawn  many  hundred  guineas  from  us  since  r  —  on  the  same 
occasion  he  described  his  debts  and  sojourn  at  a  respectable 
hotel,  in  which  it  seems  he  has  never  set  his  foot.  But 
these  liallucinations  pass  away  with  ^lay,  and  next  month 
he  will,  no  doubt,  be  calmer,  or,  at  least,  not  more  absurd 
than  usual.  Some  disappointments  occurring  to  himself, 
and  the  refusal  of  his  great  picture  of  "  Heliogabalus  "  in 
the  year  1803  (which  caused  his  retirement  from  practice 
as  a  painter),  may  account  for  his  extreme  bitterness 
against  some  of  the  chief  artists  in  this  or  any  other 
school  or  country.  Thus  we  have  him  in  these  pages  abus- 
ing Raphael ;  in  the  very  last  month  he  fell  foul  of  Rubens, 
and  in  the  present  paper  he  actually  pooh-poohs  Sir  Martin 
Shee  and  some  of  the  Royal  Academy.  This  is  too  much. 
"  Coelum  ipsum,"  as  Horace  saj'S,  ''  petimus  stultitia."  But 
we  will  quote  no  more  the  well-known  words  of  the  Epicu- 
rean bard. 

We  only  add  that  we  do  not  feel  in  the  least  bound  by 
any  one  of  the  opinions  here  brought  forward,  from  most 
of  which,  except  where  the  writer  contradicts  himself  and 
so  saves  us  the  trouble,  we  cordially  dissent ;  and  perhaps 
the  reader  had  best  pass  on  to  the  next  article,  omitting 


242      CRITICISMS  IiY  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

all  perusal  of  this,  excepting,  of  course,  the  editorial  notice 
of  — 0.  Y. 

Jack  Straw's  Castle,  Hampstead,  May  25. 

This  is  written  in  the  midst  of  a  general  desolation  and 
discouragement  of  the  honest  practitioners  who  dwell  in 
the  dingy  first  floors  about  Middlesex  Hospital  and  Soho. 
The  long-haired  ones  are  tearing  their  lanky  locks  ;  the 
velvet-coated  sons  of  genius  are  plunged  in  despair;  the 
law  has  ordered  the  suppression  of  Art-Unions,  and  the 
wheel  of  fortune  has  suddenly  and  cruelly  been  made  to 
stand  still.  When  the  dreadful  news  came  that  the  kindly 
harmless  Art-lottery  was  to  be  put  an  end  to,  although 
Derby-lotteries  are  advertised  in  every  gin  shop  in  London, 
and  every  ruffian  in  the  City  may  gamble  at  his  leisure, 
the  men  of  the  brush  and  palette  convoked  a  tumultuous 
meeting,  where,  amidst  tears,  shrieks,  and  wrath,  the  cruelty 
of  their  case  was  debated.  Wyse  of  Waterford  calmly 
presided  over  the  stormy  bladder-squeezers,  the  insulted 
wielders  of  the  knife  and  maulstick.  Wyse  soothed  their 
angry  spirits  with  words  of  wisdom  and  hope.  He  stood 
up  in  the  assembly  of  the  legislators  of  the  land  and 
pointed  out  their  wrongs.  The  painters'  friend,  the  kind 
old  Lansdowne,  lifted  up  his  cordial  voice  among  the  peers 
of  England,  and  asked  for  protection  for  the  children  of 
Raphael  and  Apelles.  No  one  said  nay.  All  pitied  the 
misfortune  of  the  painters ;  even  Lord  Brougham  was 
stilled  into  compassion,  and  the  voice  of  Vaux  was  only 
heard  in  sobs. 

These  are  days  of  darkness,  but  there  is  hope  in  the 
vista ;  the  lottery-subscription  lies  in  limbo,  but  it  shall  be 
released  therefrom  and  flourish,  exuberantly  revivified,  in 
future  years.  Had  the  ruin  been  consummated,  this  hand 
should  have  withered  rather  than  have  attempted  to  in- 
scribe jokes  concerning  it.  No,  Fraser  is  the  artists'  friend, 
their  mild  parent.  While  his  Royal  Highness  Prince 
Albert  dines  with  the  Academicians,  the  rest  of  painters, 
less  fortunate,  are  patronized  by  her  Majesty  Regijia. 

Yes,  in  spite  of  the  Art-Union  accident,  there  is  hope 
for  the  painters.  Sir  Martin  Archer  Shee  thinks  that  the 
Prince's  condescension  in  dining  with  the  Academy  will  do 
incalculable  benefit  to  the  art.  Henceforth  its  position  is 
assured  in  the  world.  This  august  patronage,  the  Presi- 
dent says,  evincing  the  sympathy  of  the  higher  classes, 
must  awaken  the  interest  of  the  low :  and  the  public  (the 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  243 

ignorant  rogues  !)  will  thus  learn  to  appreciate  what  they 
have  not  cared  for  hitherto.  Interested !  Of  course  they 
will  be.  0  Academicians  !  ask  the  public  to  dinner,  and 
you  will  see  how  much  interested  they  will  be.  We  are 
authorized  to  state  that  next  year  any  person  who  will  send 
in  his  name  will  have  a  cover  provided ;  Trafalgar  Square 
is  to  be  awned  in,  plates  are  to  be  laid  for  250,000,  one  of 
the  new  basins  is  to  be  filled  -with  turtle  and  the  other  with 
cold  punch.  The  President  and  the  elite  are  to  sit  upon 
Nelson's  pillar,  while  rows  of  benches,  stretching  as  far  as 
the  Union  Club,  Northumberland  House,  and  St.  ]V[artin's 
Church,  will  accommodate  the  vulgar.  Mr.  Toole  is  to 
have  a  speaking-trumpet ;  and  a  twenty-four-pounder  to  be 
discharged  at  each  toast. 

There  are  other  symptoms  of  awakening  interest  in  the 
public  mind.  The  readers  of  newspapers  will  remark  this 
year  that  the  leaders  of  public  opinion  have  devoted  an 
unusually  large  space  and  print  to  reviews  of  the  fine  arts. 
They  have  been  employing  critics  who,  though  they  contra- 
dict each  other  a  good  deal,  are  yet  evidently  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  subject  than  critics  of  old  used  to  be, 
when  gentlemen  of  the  profession  were  instructed  to  re- 
port on  a  fire,  or  an  Old  Bailey  trial,  or  a  Greek  play,  or 
an  opera,  or  a  boxing-match,  or  a  picture  gallery,  as  their 
turn  came.  Read  now  the  Times,  the  Chroniele,  the  Post 
(especially  the  Fost,  of  which  the  painting  critiques  have 
been  very  good),  and  it  will  be  seen  that  the  critic  knows 
his  business,  and  from  the  length  of  his  articles  it  may  be 
conjectured  that  the  public  is  interested  in  knowing  what 
he  has  to  say.  This  is  all,  probably,  from  the  Prince  hav- 
ing dined  at  the  Academy.  The  nation  did  not  care  for 
pictures  until  then,  — until  the  nobility  taught  us  ;  gracious 
nobility  !     Above  all,  what  a  compliment  to  the  public  ! 

As  one  looks  round  the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
one  cannot  but  deplore  the  fate  of  the  poor  fellows  who 
have  been  speculating  upon  the  Art-Unions ;  and  yet  in  the 
act  of  grief  there  is  a  lurking  satisfaction.  The  poor  fel- 
lows can't  sell  their  pieces  ;  that  is  a  pity.  But  why  did 
the  poor  fellows  paint  such  fiddle-faddle  pictures  ?  They 
catered  for  the  bourgeois,  the  sly  rogues  !  They  know  hon- 
est John  Bull's  taste,  and  simple  admiration  of  namby- 
pamby,  and  so  they  supplied  him  wath  an  article  that  was 
just  likely  to  suit  him.  In  like  manner  savages  are  supplied 
with   glass  beads ;   children  are  accommodated  with   toys 


244      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

and  trash,  by  dexterous  speculators  who  know  their  market. 
Well,  I  am  sorry  that  the  painting  speculators  have  had  a 
stop  put  to  their  little  venture,  and  that  the  ugly  law 
against  lotteries  has  stepped  in  and  seized  upon  the  twelve 
thousand  pounds,  which  was  to  furnish  many  a  hungry 
British  Raphael  with  a  coat  and  a  beefsteak.  Many  a 
Mrs.  Raphael,  who  was  looking  out  for  a  new  dress,  or  a 
trip  to  Margate  or  Boulogne  for  the  summer,  must  forego 
the  pleasure,  and  remain  in  dingy  jSTewman  Street.  Many 
little  ones  will  go  back  to  Turnham  Green  academies  and 
not  carry  the  amount  of  last  half-year's  bill  in  the  trunk  ; 
many  a  landlord  will  bully  about  the  non-payment  of  the 
rent ;  and  a  vast  number  of  frame-makers  will  look  wist- 
fully at  their  carving  and  gilding  as  it  returns  after  the  ex- 
hibition to  Mr.  Tinto,  Charlotte  Street,  along  with  poor 
Tinto's  picture  from  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  that  he 
made  sure  of  selling  to  an  Art-Union  prizeman.  This  is 
the  pathetic  side  of  the  question.  My  heart  is  tender,  and 
I  weep  for  the  honest  painters  peering  dismally  at  the 
twelve  thousand  pounds  like  hungry  boys  do  at  a  tart-shop. 

But  —  here  stern  justice  interposes,  and  the  man  having 
relented,  the  critic  raises  his  inexorable  voice  —  but,  I  say, 
the  enemies  of  Art-Unions  have  had  some  reason  for  their 
complaints,  and  I  fear  it  is  too  true  that  the  effect  of  those 
institutions,  as  far  as  they  have  gone  hitherto,  has  not  been 
mightily  favorable  to  the  cause  of  art.  One  day,  by  cus- 
tom, no  doubt,  the  public  taste  will  grow  better,  and  as  the 
man  who  begins  by  intoxicating  himself  with  a  glass  of 
gin  finishes  sometimes  by  easily  absorbing  a  bottle ;  as  the 
law  student,  who  at  first  is  tired  with  a  chapter  of  Black- 
stone,  will  presently  swallow  you  down  with  pleasure  a 
whole  volume  of  Chitty ;  as  education,  in  a  word,  advances, 
it  is  humbly  to  be  hoped  that  the  great  and  generous 
British  public  will  not  be  so  easily  satisfied  as  at  present, 
and  will  ask  for  a  better  article  for  its  money. 

Meanwhile,  their  taste  being  pitiable,  the  artists  supply 
them  with  poor  stuff  —  pretty  cheap  tawdry  toys  and  gim- 
cracks  in  place  of  august  and  beautiful  objects  of  art.  It 
is  always  the  case.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  literary 
men  are  a  bit  better.  Poor  fellows  of  the  pen  and  pencil ! 
we  must  live.  The  public  likes  light  literature  and  we 
write  it.  Here  am  I  writing  magazine  jokes  and  follies, 
and  why  ?  Because  the  public  like  such,  will  purchase  no 
other.     Otherwise,   as  Mr.  Nickisson  and  all  who  are  ac* 


MAY  GAMBOLS,  245 

quainted  with  M.  A.  Titmarsh  in  private  know,  my  real  in- 
clinations would  lead  me  to  write  works  upon  mathematics, 
geology,  and  chemistry,  varying  them  in  my  lighter  hours 
with  little  playful  treatises  on  questions  of  political  econ- 
omy, epic  poems,  and  essays  on  the  ^Eolic  digamma.  So, 
in  fact,  these  severe  rebukes  with  which  I  am  about  to 
belabor  my  neighbor  must  be  taken  as  they  are  given,  in  a 
humble  and  friendly  spirit;  they  are  not  actuated  by  pride, 
but  by  deep  sympath}-.  Just  as  we  read  in  holy  ^Ir.  New- 
man's life  of  St.  Stephen  Harding,  that  it  was  the  custom 
among  the  godly  Cistercian  monks  (in  the  good  old  times, 
Avhich  holy  Newman  would  restore)  to  assemble  every  morn- 
ing in  full  chapter ;  and  there,  after  each  monk  had  made 
his  confession,  it  was  free  to  —  nay,  it  was  strictly  enjoined 
on  —  any  other  brother  to  rise  and  say,  "  Brother  So-and-so 
hath  not  told  all  his  sins  ;  our  dear  brother  has  forgotten 
that  yesterday  he  ate  his  split-peas  with  too  much  gorman- 
dize ;  "  or,  "  This  morning  he  did  indecently  rejoice  over 
his  water-gruel,"  or  what  not — these  real  Christians  were 
called  upon  to  inform,  not  only  of  themselves,  but  to  be  in- 
formers over  each  other  ;  and,  the  information  being  given, 
the  brother  informed  against  thanked  his  brother  the  in- 
former, and  laid  liimself  down  on  the  desk,  and  was  flag- 
ellated with  gratitude.  Sweet  friends !  be  you  like  the 
Cistercians  !  Brother  ;^[ichael  Angelo  is  going  to  inform 
against  you.  Get  ready  your  garments  and  prepare  for 
flagellation.  Brother  Michael  Angelo  is  about  to  lay  on  and 
spare  not. 

Brother  ^Michael  lifts  up  his  voice  against  the  young 
painters  collectively  in  the  first  place,  afterwards  indi- 
vidually, when  he  will  also  take  leave  to  tickle  them  with 
the  wholesome  stripes  of  the  flagelluin.  In  the  first  place, 
then  (and  my  heart  is  so  tender  that,  rather  than  begin 
the  operation,  I  have  been  beating  about  the  bush  for  more 
than  a  page,  of  which  page  the  reader  is  cordially  requested 
to  omit  the  perusal,  as  it  is  not  the  least  to  the  purpose),  I 
say  that  the  young  painters  of  England,  whose  uprise  this 
Magazine  and  this  critic  were  the  first  to  hail,  asserting 
loudly  their  superiority  over  the  pompous  old  sham  clas- 
sical big-wigs  of  the  Academy  —  the  young  painters  of 
England  are  not  domg  their  duty.  They  are  going  back- 
wards, or,  rather,  they  are  flinging  themselves  under  the 
wheels  of  that  great  golden  Juggernaut  of  an  Art-Union. 
The  thought  of  the  money  is  leading  them  astray  ;  they 


246     CRITICISMS   IX  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

are  poets  no  longer,  but  money-hunters.  They  paint  down 
to  the  level  of  the  public  intelligeuce,  rather  than  seek  to 
elevate  the  public  to  them.  Why  do  these  great  geniuses 
lail  in  their  duty  of  instruction  ?  Why,  knowing  better 
things,  do  they  serve  out  such  awful  twaddle  as  we  have 
from  them  ?  Alas !  it  is  not  for  art  they  paint,  but  for 
the  Art- Union. 

The  tirst  dear  brother  I  shall  take  the  liberty  to  request 
to  get  ready  for  operation  is  brother  Charles  Landseer. 
Brother  Charles  has  sinned.  He  has  grievously  sinned. 
And  we  will  begin  with  this  miserable  sinner,  and  admin- 
ister to  him  admonition  in  a  friendly,  though  most  fierce 
and  cutting  manner. 

The  subject  of  brother  Charles  Landseer's  crime  is  this. 
The  sinner  has  said  to  himself,  "  The  British  public  likes 
domestic  pieces.  They  will  have  nothing  but  domestic 
pieces.  I  will  give  them  one,  and  of  a  new  sort.  Suppose 
I  paint  a  picture  that  must  make  a  hit.  My  picture  will 
have  every  sort  of  interest.  It  shall  interest  the  religious 
public  ;  it  shall  interest  the  domestic  public  ;  it  shall  inter- 
est the  amateur  for  the  cleverness  of  its  painting ;  it  shall 
interest  little  boys  and  girls,  for  I  will  introduce  no  end  of 
animals,  camels,  monkeys,  elephants,  and  cockatoos ;  it 
shall  interest  sentimental  young  ladies,  for  I  will  take  care 
to  have  a  pretty  little  episode  for  them.  I  will  take  the 
town  by  storm,  in  a  word."  This  is  what  I  conceive  was 
passing  in  brother  Charles  Landseer's  sinful  soul  when  he 
conceived  and  executed  his  JSToah's  ark  in  a  domestic 

POIXT  OF  VIEW. 

Noah  and  his  family  (with  some  supplemental  young 
children,  very  sweetly  painted)  are  seated  in  the  ark,  and 
a  port-hole  is  opened,  out  of  which  one  of  the  sons  is  look- 
ing at  the  now  peaceful  waters.  The  sunshine  enters  the 
huge  repository  of  the  life  of  the  world,  and  the  dove  has 
just  flown  in  with  an  olive-branch,  and  nestles  in  the  bosom 
of  one  of  the  daughters  of  Noah ;  the  patriarch  and  his 
aged  partner  are  lifting  up  their  venerable  eyes  in  thank- 
fulness ;  the  children  stand  around,  the  peaceful  laborer 
and  the  brown  huntsman  each  testifying  his  devotion  after 
his  fashion.  The  animals  round  about  participate  in  the 
joyful  nature  of  the  scene,  their  instinct  seems  to  tell  them 
that  tlie  hour  of  their  deliverance  is  near. 

There,  the  picture  is  described  romantically  and  in  the 
best  of  language.     Now  let  us  proceed  to  examine  the  poe- 


MAV   GAMBOLS.  247 

try  critically,  and  to  see  what  its  claims  are.  Well,  the 
ark  is  a  great  subject.  The  history  from  which  we  have 
our  account  of  it,  from  a  poet  surely  demands  a  reverent 
treatment ;  a  blacksmith  roaring  from  the  desk  of  a  con- 
venticle may  treat  it  familiarly,  but  an  educated  artist 
ought  surely  to  approach  such  a  theme  with  respect.  The 
point  here  is  only  urged  aesthetically.  As  a  matter  of  taste, 
then  (and  the  present  humble  writer  has  no  business  to 
speak  on  any  other),  such  a  manner  of  treating  the  subject 
is  certainly  reprehensible.  The  ark  is  vulgarized  here 
and  reduced  to  the  proportions  of  a  Calais  steamer.  The 
])assengers  are  rejoicing:  they  are  glad  to  get  away. 
Their  live  animals  are  about  them  no  more  nor  less  sublime 
than  so  many  cattle  or  horses  in  loose  boxes.  The  parrots 
perched  on  the  hoop  yonder  have  as  little  signification  as  a 
set  of  birds  in  a  cage  at  the  Zoological  Gardens ;  the  very 
dove  becomes  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  jjet  of  the 
pretty  girl  represented  in  the  centre  of  the  picture.  All 
the  greatness  of  the  subject  is  lost;  and,  putting  the  his- 
torical nature  of  the  personages  out  of  the  question,  they 
liave  little  more  interest  than  a  group  of  any  emigrants  in 
the  hold  of  a  ship,  who  rouse  and  rally  at  the  sound  of 
'•  Land  ho  !  " 

Why,  if  all  great  themes  of  poetry  are  to  be  treated  in 
this  way,  the  art  would  be  easy.  We  might  liave  Hector 
shaving  himself  before  going  out  to  fight  Achilles,  as,  un- 
doubtedly, the  Trojan  liero  did  ;  Priam  in  a  cotton  night- 
cap asleep  in  a  four-poster  on  the  night  of  the  sack  of 
Troy,  Hecuba,  of  course,  by  his  side,  with  curl-papers,  and 
her  tour  de  fete  on  the  toilet-glass.  We  might  have  Dido's 
maid  coming  after  her  mistress  in  the  shower  with  pattens 
and  an  umbrella ;  or  Cleopatra's  page  guttling  the  figs  in 
the  basket  which  had  brought  the  asp  that  killed  the  mis- 
tress of  Antony.  Absurd  trivialities,  or  pretty  trivialities, 
are  nothing  to  the  question ;  those  I  have  adduced  here  are 
absurd,  but  they  are  just  as  poetical  as  prettiness,  not  a 
whit  less  degrading  and  commonplace.  Xo  painter  has  a 
right  to  treat  great  historical  subjects  in  such  a  fashion ; 
and  though  the  public  are  sure  to  admire,  and  young  ladies, 
in  raptures,  look  on  at  the  darling  of  a  dove,  and  little 
boys  in  deliglit  cry,  "  Look,  papa,  at  the  paroquets ! " 
"  Law,  ma,  what  big  trunks  the  elephants  have ! "  it  yet 
behooves  the  critic  to  say  this  is  an  unpoetical  piece,  and 
severely  to  reprehend  the  unhappy  perpetrator  thereof. 


248      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

I  know  brother  Charles  will  appeal.  I  know  it  will  be 
pleaded  in  his  favor  that  the  picture  is  capitally  painted, 
some  of  the  figures  very  pretty ;  two  —  that  of  the  old 
woman  and  the  boy  looking  out  —  quite  grand  in  drawing 
and  color;  the  picture  charming  for  its  silvery  tone  and 
agreeable  pleasantry  of  color.  All  this  is  true.  But  he 
has  sinned,  he  has  greatly  sinned ;  let  him  acknowledge 
his  fault  in  the  presence  of  the  chapter,  and  receive  the 
customary  and  wholesome  reward  thereof. 

Frater  Redgrave  is  the  next  malefactor  whose  sins  de- 
serve a  reprobation.  In  the  namby-pamby  line  his  errors 
are  very  sad.  Has  he  not  been  already  warned  in  this  very 
miscellany  of  his  propensity  to  small  sentiment  ?  Has  he 
corrected  himself  of  that  grievous  tendency  ?  No :  his 
weakness  grows  more  and  more  upon  him,  and  he  is  now 
more  sinful  than  ever.  One  of  his  pictures  is  taken  from 
the  most  startling  lyric  in  our  language,  the  "  Song  of  the 
Shirt,"  a  song  as  bitter  and  manly  as  it  is  exquisitely  soft 
and  tender,  a  song  of  which  the  humor  draws  tears.* 

Mr.  Redgrave  has  illustrated  everything  except  the  hu- 
mor, the  manliness,  and  the  bitterness  of  the  song.  He 
has  only  depicted  the  tender  good-natured  part  of  it.  It  is 
impossible  to  quarrel  with  the  philanthropy  of  the  painter. 
His  shirt-maker  sits  by  her  little  neat  bed,  work,  working 
away.  You  may  see  how  late  it  is,  for  the  candle  is  nearly 
burnt  out,  the  clock  ( capital  poetic  notion ! )  says  what 
o'clock  it  is,  the  gray-streaked  dawn  is  rising  over  the 
opposite  house  seen  through  the  cheerless  casement,  and 
where  (from  a  light  which  it  has  in  its  window)  you  may 
imagine  that  another  poor  shirt-maker  is  toiling,  too.  The 
one  before  us  is  pretty,  pale,  and  wan ;  she  turns  up  the 
whites  of  her  fine  fatigued  eyes  to  the  little  ceiling.  She  is 
ill,  as  the  artist  has  shown  us  by  a  fine  stroke  of  genius  —  a 
parcel  of  medicine-bottles  on  the  mantel-piece!  The  pic- 
ture is  carefully  and  cleverly  painted  —  extremely  popu- 
lar—  gazed  at  with  vast  interest  by  most  spectators.  Is 
it,  however,  a  poetical  subject  ?  Yes,  Hood  has  shown  that 
it  can  be  made  one,  but  by  surprising  turns  of  thought 
brought  to  bear  upon  it,  strange,  terrible,  unexpected  lights 
of  humor  which  he  has  flung  upon  it.  And  to  "  trump  " 
this  tremendous  card,  Mr.  Redgrave  gives  us  this  picture ; 
his  points  being  the  clock,  which  tells  the  time  of  day,  the 

*  How  is  it  that  none  of  the  papers  have  noticed  the  astonishing  poem 
by  Mr.  Hood  in  the  May  number  of  his  magazine,  to  which  our  language 
contains  no  parallel  ?  —  M.  A.  T. 


MAY   GAMBOLS.  249 

vials,  which  show  the  poor  girl  takes  physic,  aud  such 
f)ther  vast  labors  of  intellect ! 

Mr.  Redgrave's  other  picture,  the  ''  Marriage  Morning," 
is  also  inspired  by  that  milk  and  water  of  human  kindness, 
the  flavor  of  which  is  so  insipid  to  the  roast-beef  intellect. 
This  is  a  scene  of  a  marriage  morning ;  the  bride  is  taking 
leave  of  her  mamma  after  the  ceremony,  and  that  amiable 
lad}',  reclining  in  an  easy-chair,  is  invoking  benedictions 
upon  the  parting  couple,  and  has  a  hand  of  her  daughter 
and  her  son-in-law  clasped  in  each  of  hers.  She  is  smiling 
sadly,  restraining  her  natural  sorrow,  which  will  break  out 
so  soon  as  the  postchaise  you  see  through  the  window,  and 
on  which  the  footman  is  piling  the  nuptial  luggage,  shall 
have  driven  off  to  Salt  Hill,  or  Eose  Cottage,  Eichmond, 
which  I  recommend.  The  bride's  father,  a  venerable  bald- 
headed  gentleman,  with  a  most  benignant,  though  slow- 
coachish  look,  is  trying  to  console  poor  Anna  Maria,  the 
unmarried  sister,  who  is  losing  the  companion  of  her  youth. 
Never  mind,  Anna  Maria,  my  dear,  your  turn  will  come, 
too ;  there  is  a  young  gentleman  making  a  speech  in  the 
])arlor  to  the  health  of  the  new-married  pair,  who,  I  lay  a 
wager,  will  be  struck  by  your  fine  eyes,  and  be  for  serving 
you  as  your  sister  has  been  treated.  This  small  fable  is 
worked  out  with  great  care  in  a  picture  in  which  there 
is  much  clever  and  conscientious  painting,  from  which, 
however,  I  must  confess,  I  derive  little  i)leasure.  The  sen- 
timent and  color  of  the  [licture  somehow  coincide ;  the  eye 
rests  upon  a  variety  of  neat  tints  of  pale  drab,  pale  green, 
pale  brown,  pale  puce  color,  of  a  sickly  warmth,  not  pleas- 
ant to  the  eye.  The  drawing  is  feeble,  the  expression  of 
the  faces  pretty  but  lackadaisical.  The  penance  I  would 
order  ISIr.  Eedgrave  should  be  a  pint  of  port  wine  to  be 
taken  daily,  and  a  devilled  kidney  every  morning  for  break- 
fast before  beginning  to  paint. 

A  little  of  the  devil,  too,  would  do  Mr.  Frank  Stone  no 
harm.  He,  too,  is  growing  dangerously  sentimental.  His 
picture,  with  a  quotation  from  Horace,  "  Maecenas  atavis 
edite  regibus,"  represents  a  sort  of  game  of  tender  cross- 
purposes,  very  difficult  to  describe  in  print.  Suppose  two 
lads,  Jocky  and  Tommy,  and  two  lassies,  Jenny  and  Jes- 
samy.     They  are  placed  thus  :  — 

Tommy,  i 

Jessamv.  Jennv.  .Tockv.  I 

A  dok.  '  I 


250     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Now  Jocky  is  making  love  to  Jenny,  in  an  easy,  off-hand 
sort  of  way,  and  though,  or,  perhaps,  because,  he  doesn't 
care  for  her  much,  is  evidently  delighting  the  young 
woman.  She  looks  round,  with  a  pleased  smile  on  her 
fresh  plump  cheeks,  and  turns  slightly  towards  heaven  a 
sweet  little  retrousse  nose,  and  twiddles  her  fingers  (most 
exquisitely  these  hands  are  drawn  and  painted,  by  the 
way)  in  the  most  contented  w^ay.  But,  ah  !  how  little  does 
she  heed  Tommy,  who,  standing  behind  Jocky,  reclining 
against  a  porch,  is  looking  and  longing  for  this  light-hearted 
Jenny !  And,  oh  !  why  does  Tommy  cast  such  sheep's 
eyes  upon  Jenny,  when  by  her  side  sits  Jessamij,  the  ten- 
der and  romantic,  the  dark-eyed  and  raven-haired  being, 
whose  treasures  of  affection  are  flung  at  heedless  Tommy's 
feet  ?  All  the  world  is  interested  in  Jessamy  ;  her  face  is 
beautiful,  her  look  of  despairing  love  is  so  exquisitely  ten- 
der that  it  touches  every  spectator ;  and  the  ladies  are 
unanimous  in  wondering  how  Tommy  can  throw  himself 
away  upon  that  simpering  Jenny,  when  such  a  superior 
creature  as  Jessamy  is  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  But  such 
is  the  way  of  the  world,  and  Tommy  will  marry,  simply 
because  everybody  tells  him  not. 

Thus  far  for  the  sentiment  of  the  picture.  The  details 
are  very  good ;  there  is  too  much  stippling  and  show  of 
finish,  perhaps,  in  the  handling,  and  the  painting  might 
have  been  more  substantial,  and  lost  nothing.  But  the 
color  is  good,  the  group  very  well  composed,  and  the  vari- 
ety of  expression  excellent.  There  is  great  passion,  as 
well  as  charming  delicacy,  in  the  disappointed  maiden's 
face ;  much  fine  appreciation  of  character  in  the  easy  smil- 
ing triumph  of  the  rival ;  and,  although  this  sentence  was 
commenced  with  the  express  determination  of  rating  Mr. 
Stone  soundly,  lo  !  it  is  finished  without  a  word  of  blame. 
Well,  let's  vent  our  anger  on  tlie  dog.  That  is  very  bad, 
and  seems  to  have  no  more  bones  than  an  apple  dumpling. 
It  is  only  because  the  artist  has  been  painting  disappointed 
lovers  a  great  deal  of  late,  that  one  is  disposed  to  grumble, 
not  at  the  work,  but  at  the  want  of  variety  of  subject. 

As  a  sentimental  picture,  the  best  and  truest,  to  my 
taste,  is  that  by  Mr.  Webster,  the  "  Portraits  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Webster,"  painted  to  celebrate  their  fiftieth  wedding- 
day.  Such  a  charming  old  couple  were  never  seen.  There 
is  delightful  grace,  sentiment,  and  purity  in  these  two 
gentle  kindly  heads  ;  much  more  sentiment  and  grace  than 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  251 

even  in  Mr.  Eastlake's  "  Heloise,"  a  face  which  the  ar- 
tist has  painted  over  and  over  again ;  a  beautiful  woman, 
but  tiresome,  unearthly,  unsubstantial,  and  no  more  like 
Heloise  than  like  the  Duke  of  \Yellington.  If  the  late  Mr. 
Pope's  epistle  be  correct,  Eloisa  was  a  most  unmistakable 
woman  ;  this  is  a  substanceless,  passionless,  solemn,  mysti- 
cal apparition  ;  but  I  doubt  if  a  woman  be  not  the  more 
poetical  being  of  the  two. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  sentimental  pictures,  Monsieur 
Delaroche's  great  "Holy  Family"  must  be  mentioned  here; 
and,  if  there  is  reason  to  quarrel  with  the  unsatisfactory 
nature  of  English  sentiment,  in  truth  it  appears  that  the 
French  are  not  much  better  provided  with  the  high  poeti- 
cal quality.  This  picture  has  all  the  outside  of  poetry,  all 
the  costume  of  religion,  all  the  prettiness  and  primness  of 
the  new  German  dandy-pietistical  school.  It  is  an  agreea- 
ble compound  of  Correggio  and  Raphael,  with  a  strong  dash 
of  Overbeck  ;  it  is  painted  as  clean  and  pretty  as  a  tulip  on 
a  dessert-plate,  the  lines  made  out  so  neatly  that  none  can 
mistake  them ;  the  drawing  good,  the  female  face  as  pretty 
and  demure  as  can  be,  her  drapery  of  spotless  blue,  and  the 
man's  of  approved  red,  the  infant  as  pink  as  strawberries 
and  cream,  every  leaf  of  the  tree  sweetly  drawn,  and  the 
trunk  of  the  most  delicate  dove-colored  gray.  All  these 
merits  the  picture  has ;  it  is  a  well-appointed  picture. 
But  is  that  all  ?  Is  that  enough  to  make  a  poet  ?  There 
are  lines  in  the  Oxford  prize  poems,  that  are  smooth  as 
Pope's  ;  and  it  is  notorious  that,  for  coloring,  there  is  no 
painting  like  the  Cliinese.  But  I  hope  the  French  artists 
have  better  men  springing  up  among  them  than  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  French  Academy  at  Rome. 

Biard,  the  Hogarthian  painter,  whose  slave-trade  picture 
was  so  noble,  has  sent  us  a  couple  of  pieces,  which  both,  in 
their  way,  possess  merit.  The  one  is  an  Arabian  caravan 
moving  over  a  brick-dust-colored  desert,  under  a  red  arid 
sky.  The  picture  is  lifelike,  and  so  far  poetical  that  it 
seems  to  tell  the  truth.  Then  there  is  a  steamboat  disas- 
ter, with  every  variety  of  sea-sickness,  laughably  painted. 
Shuddering  soldiery,  sprawling  dandies,  Englishmen,  Sa- 
voyards, guitars,  lovers,  monkeys, — a  dreadful  confusion 
of  qualmish  people,  whose  agonies  will  put  the  most  mis- 
anthropic observer  into  good  humor.  Biard's  "  Havre 
Packet "  is  much  more  praiseworthy  in  my  mind  than 
Delaroche's  "  Holy  Family ; "  for  I  deny  the  merit  of  fail- 


252     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

ing  greatly  in  pictures  —  the  great  merit  is  to  succeed. 
There  is  no  greater  error,  surely,  than  that  received  dictum 
of  the  ambitious  to  aim  at  high  things  ;  it  is  best  to  do 
what  you  mean  to  do :  better  to  kill  a  crow  than  to  miss 
an  eagle. 

As  the  French  artists  are  sending  in  their  works  from 
across  the  water,  why,  for  the  honor  of  England,  will  not 
some  of  our  painters  let  the  Parisians  know  that  here,  too, 
are  men  whose  genius  is  worthy  of  appreciation  ?  They 
may  be  the  best  draughtsmen  in  the  world,  but  they  have 
no  draughtsman  like  Maclise,  they  have  no  colorist  like 
Etty,  they  have  no  painter  like  Mulready,  above  all,  whose 
name  I  beg  the  printer  to  place  in  the  largest  capitals,  and 
to  surround  with  a  wreath  of  laurels.  Mr.  Mulready  was 
crowned  in  this  Magazine  once  before.  Here  again  he  is 
proclaimed.  It  looks  like  extravagance,  or  flattery,  for  the 
blushing  critic  to  tell  his  real  mind  about  the  "Whistonian 
Controversy." 

And  yet,  as  the  truth  must  be  told,  why  not  say  it  now 
at  once  ?  I  believe  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest  cabinet  pic- 
tures in  the  world.  It  seems  to  me  to  possess  an  assem- 
blage of  excellences  so  rare,  to  be  in  drawing  so  admirable, 
in  expression  so  fine,  in  finish  so  exquisite,  in  composition 
so  beautiful,  in  humor  and  beauty  of  expression  so  delight- 
ful, that  I  can't  but  ask  where  is  a  good  picture,  if  this  be 
not  one  ?  And,  in  enumerating  all  the  above  perfections, 
I  find  I  have  forgotten  the  greatest  of  all,  the  color ;  it  is 
quite  original,  this,  —  brilliant,  rich,  astonishingly  lumi- 
nous, and  intense.  The  pictures  of  Van  Eyck  are  not 
more  brilliant  in  tone  than  this  magnificent  combination  of 
blazing  reds,  browns,  and  purples.  I  know  of  no  scheme 
of  color  like  it,  and  heartily  trust  that  time  will  preserve 
it ;  when  this  little  picture,  and  some  of  its  fellows,  will  be 
purchased  as  eagerly  as  a  Hemlinck  or  a  Gerard  Douw  is 
bought  nowadays.  If  Mr.  Mulready  has  a  mind  to  the 
Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  he  has  but  to  send 
this  picture  to  Paris  next  year,  and,  with  the  recommenda- 
tion of  Fraser^s  Magazine,  the  affair  is  settled.  Mean- 
while, it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  the  artist  (although  his 
work  will  fetch  ten  times  as  much  money  a  hundred  years 
hence)  has  not  been  ill  rewarded,  as  times  go,  for  his 
trouble  and  genius. 

We  have  another  great  and  original  colorist  among  us, 
as   luscious   as    Pubens,  as   rich   almost   as   Titian  —  Mr. 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  2oo 

Etty ;  and  every  year  the  exhibition  sparkles  with  magnifi- 
cent little  canvases,  the  works  of  this  indefatigable  strenu- 
ous admirer  of  nude  Beauty.  The  form  is  not  quite  so 
sublime  as  the  color  in  this  artist's  paintings ;  the  female 
figure  is  often  rather  too  expansively  treated,  it  swells 
here  and  there  to  the  proportions  of  the  Caffrarian,  rather 
than  tlie  .Medicean,  Venus ;  but,  in  color,  little  can  be  con- 
ceived that  is  more  voluptuously  beautiful.  This  year 
introduces  to  us  one  of  the  artist's  noblest  compositions,  a 
classical  and  pictorial  orrji/,  as  it  were,  —  a  magnificent  vis- 
ion of  rich  colors  and  beautiful  forms,  —  a  grand  feast  of 
sensual  poetry.  The  verses  from  '•  Comus,*'  which  the 
painter  has  taken  to  illustrate,  have  the  same  character:  — 

'•  All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree, 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers. 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  spring. 
Beds  of  hyacinths  and  roses. 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound, 
In  slumber  soft  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  llie  Assyrian  Queen; 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen, 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son.  advancetl. 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced." 

It  is  a  dream  rather  than  a  reality,  the  words  and  images 
purposely  indistinct  and  incoherent.  In  the  same  way  the 
painter  has  made  the  beautiful  figures  sweep  before  us  in  a 
haze  of  golden  sunshine.  This  picture  is  one  of  a  series  to 
be  painted  in  fresco,  and  to  decorate  the  walls  of  a  summer- 
house  in  the  gardens  of  Buckingham  Palace,  for  which  edi- 
fice Mr.  Maclise  and  Mr.  Leslie  have  also  made  paintings. 

That  of  Mr.  Leslie's  is  too  homely.  He  is  a  prose 
painter.  His  kind  buxom  young  lass  has  none  of  the  look 
of  Milton's  lady,  that  charming  compound  of  the  saint  and 
the  fine  lady  —  that  sweet  impersonation  of  the  chivalric 
mythology  —  an  angel,  but  with  her  sixteen  quarterings  — 
a  countess  descended  from  the  skies.  Leslie's  lady  has  no 
such  high  breeding,  the  Comus  above  her  looks  as  if  he 
might  revel  on  ale ;  a  rustic  seducer,  with  an  air  of  rude 
hobnailed  health.  Nor  are  the  demons  and  fantastic  fig- 
ures introduced  imaginative  enough  ;  they  are  fellows  with 
masks,  from  Covent  Garden.     Compare  the  two  figures  at 


254     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  sides  of  the  picture  with  the  two  Cupids  of  Mr.  Etty. 
In  the  former  there  is  no  fancy.  The  latter  are  two  flow- 
ers of  poetry  ;  there  are  no  words  to  characterize  those  two 
delicious  little  figures,  no  more  than  to  describe  a  little 
air  of  Mozart,  which,  once  heard,  remains  with  you  for- 
ever ;  or  a  new  flower,  or  a  phrase  of  Keats  or  Tennyson, 
which  blooms  out  upon  you  suddenly,  astonishing  as  much 
as  it  pleases.  Well,  in  endeavoring  to  account  for  his 
admiration,  the  critic  pumps  for  words  in  vain ;  if  he  uses 
such  as  he  finds,  he  runs  the  risk  of  being  considered  intol- 
erably pert  and  affected;  silent  pleasure,  therefore,  best 
beseems  him  ;  but  this  I  know,  that  were  my  humble  rec- 
ommendations attended  to  at  Court,  when  the  pictures  are 
put  in  the  pleasure-house,  her  sacred  Majesty,  giving  a 
splendid  banquet  to  welcome  them  and  the  painter,  should 
touch  Mr.  Etty  on  the  left  shoulder  and  say,  "  Rise,  my 
knight  of  the  Bath,  for  painting  the  left-hand  Cupid ; "  and 
the  Emperor  of  Russia  (being  likewise  present)  should  tap 
him  on  the  right  shoulder,  exclaiming,  "  Rise,  my  knight 
of  the  Eagle,  for  the  right-hand  Cupid." 

Mr.  Maclise's  "  Comus "  picture  is  wonderful  for  the 
variety  of  its  design,  and  has,  too,  a  high  poetry  of  its 
own.  All  the  figures  are  here  still  and  solemn  as  in  a  tab- 
leau ;  the  lady  still  on  her  unearthly  snaky  chair,  Sabrina 
still  stooping  over  her.  On  one  side  the  brothers,  and 
opposite  the  solemn  attendant  spirit ;  round  these,  inter- 
minable groups  and  vistas  of  fairy  beings,  twining  in  a 
thousand  attitudes  of  grace,  and  sparkling  white  and  blood- 
less against  a  leaden  blue  sky.  It  is  the  most  poetical  of 
the  artist's  pictures,  the  most  extraordinary  exhibition  of 
his  proper  skill.  Is  it  true  that  the  artists  are  only  to 
receive  three  hundred  guineas  apiece  for  these  noble  com- 
positions ?  AVhy,  a  print-seller  would  give  more,  and 
artists  should  not  be  allowed  to  paint  simply  for  the  honor 
of  decorating  a  royal  summer-house. 

Among  the  poetical  pictures  of  the  exhibition  should  be 
mentioned  with  especial  praise  Mr.  Cope's  delightful 
"  Charity,"  than  the  female  figures  in  which  Raphael 
scarce  painted  anything  more  charmingly  beautiful.  And 
Mr.  Cope  has  this  merit,  that  his  work  is  no  prim  imita- 
tion of  the  stiff  old  Cimabue  and  Giotto  manner,  no  aping 
of  the  crisp  draperies  and  hard  outlines  of  the  missal  illu- 
minations, without  which  the  religious  artist  would  have 
us  believe    religious  expression  is  impossible.     It  is  pleas- 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  255 

ant,  after  seeing  the  wretched  caricatures  of  old-world 
usages  which  stare  us  in  the  face  in  every  quarter  of  Lon- 
don now  —  little  dumpy  Saxon  chapels  built  in  raw  brick, 
spick  and  span  bandbox  churches  of  the  pointed  Xoi'man 
style  for  Cockneys  in  zephyr  coats  to  assemble  in,  new  old 
painted  windows  of  the  twelfth  century,  tessellated  pave- 
ments of  the  Byzantine  school,  gimcrack  imitations  of  the 
Golden  Legend  printed  with  red  letters,  and  crosses,  and 
quaint  figures  stolen  out  of  Xorman  missals  —  to  find 
artists  aiming  at  the  Beautiful  and  Pure  without  thinking 
it  necessary  to  resort  to  these  paltry  archaeological  quack- 
eries, which  have  no  Faith,  no  Truth,  no  Lite  in  them  ; 
but  which  give  us  ceremony  in  lieu  of  reality,  and  insist  on 
forms,  as  if  they  were  the  conditions  of  belief. 

Lest  the  reader  should  misunderstand  the  cause  of  this 
anger,  we  beg  him  to  take  the  trouble  to  cross  Pall  Mall  to 
Saint  James's  Street,  where  objects  of  art  are  likewise 
exhibited ;  he  will  see  the  reason  of  our  wrath.  Here  are 
all  the  ornamental  artists  of  England  sending  in  their 
works,  and  what  are  they  ?  —  All  imitations.  The  Alham- 
bra  here ;  the  Temple  Church  there  ;  here  a  Gothic  saint ; 
yonder  a  Saxon  altar-rail  ;  farther  on  a  sprawling  rococo 
of  Louis  XV.  ;  all  worked  neatly  and  cleverly  enough,  but 
with  no  originality,  no  honesty  of  thought.  The  twelfth 
century  revived  in  IMr.  Crockford's  bazaar,  forsooth  I  with 
examples  of  every  century  except  our  own.  It  would  be 
worth  while  for  some  one  to  write  an  essay,  showing  how 
astonishingly  Sir  Walter  Scott  *  has  influenced  the  world ; 
how  he  changed  the  character  of  novelists,  then  of  histori- 
ans, whom  he  brought  from  their  philosophy  to  the  study 
of  pageantry  and  costume :  how  the  artists  then  began  to 
fall  back  into  the  middle  ages  and  the  architects  to  follow; 
until  now  behold  we  have  Mr.  Newman  and  his  congrega- 
tion of  Littlemore  marching  out  with  taper  and  crosier, 
and  falling  down  to  worship  Saint  Willibald.  and  Saint 
Winnibald,  and  Saint  Walberga  the  Saxon  virgin.  But 
Mr.  Cope's  picture  is  leading  the  reader  rather  farther 
than  a  critique  about  exhibitions  has  any  right  to  divert 
him,  and  let  us  walk  soberly  back  to  Trafalgar  Square. 

Remark  the  beautiful  figures  of  the  children  in  Mr. 
Cope's   picture    (276),  the   fainting   one,  and   the   golden- 

*  Or  more  properly  Goethe.  "  Goetz  von  Berlicliingen  "  was  the  father 
of  the  Scottish  rornances,  and  Scott  remained  constant  to  that  mode, 
while  the  greater  artist  tried  a  thousand  others. 


256      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

haired  infant  at  the  gate.  It  is  a  noble  and  touching 
Scripture  illustration.  The  artist's  other  picture,  "  Gene- 
vieve," is  not  so  successful ;  the  faces  seem  to  have  been 
painted  from  a  dirty  palette,  the  evening  tints  of  the  sky 
are  as  smoky  as  a  sunset  in  Saint  James's  Park ;  the  com- 
position unpleasant,  and  not  enough  to  fill  the  surface  of 
canvas. 

Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  The  Trial  of  the  Seven  Bish- 
ops" is  painted  with  better  attention  to  costume  than  most 
English  painters  are  disposed  to  pay.  The  characters  in 
our  artists'  history-pieces,  as  indeed  on  our  theatres,  do  not 
look  commonly  accustomed  to  the  dresses  which  they  as- 
sume ;  wear  them  awkwardly,  take  liberties  of  alteration 
and  adjustment,  and  spoil  thereby  the  truth  of  the  delinea- 
tion. The  French  artists,  on  the  canvas  or  the  boards, 
understand  this  branch  of  their  art  much  better.  Look  at 
Monsieur  Biard's  "Mecca  Pilgrims,"  how  carefully  and 
accurately  they  are  attired ;  or  go  to  the  French  play  and 
see  Cartigny  in  a  Hogarthian  dress.  He  wears  it  as  though 
he  had  been  born  a  hundred  years  back — looks  the  old 
marquess  to  perfection.  In  this  attention  to  dress  Mr. 
Herbert's  picture  is  very  praiseworthy  ;  the  men  are  quite 
at  home  in  their  quaint  coats  and  periwigs  of  James  II.'s 
time ;  the  ladies  at  ease  in  their  stiff  long-waisted  gowns, 
their  fans,  and  their  queer  caps  and  patches.  And  the  pic- 
ture is  pleasing  from  the  extreme  brightness  and  cleanli- 
ness of  the  painting.  All  looks  as  neat  and  fresh  as  Sam 
Pepys  when  he  turned  out  in  his  new  suit,  his  lady  in  her 
satin  and  brocade.  But  here  the  praise  must  stop.  The 
great  concourse  of  people  delineated,  the  bishops  and  the 
jury,  the  judges  and  the  sheriffs,  the  halberdiers  and  the 
fine  ladies,  seem  very  little  interested  in  the  transaction  in 
which  they  are  engaged,  and  look  as  if  they  were  assem- 
bled rather  for  show  than  business.  Nor,  indeed,  is  the 
artist  much  in  fault.  Painters  have  not  fair  play  in  these 
parade  pictures.  It  is  only  with  us  that  Reform-banquets, 
or  views  of  the  House  of  Lords  at  the  passing  of  the  Slop- 
perton  E/ailway  Bill,  or  Coronation  Processions,  obtain 
favor ;  in  which  vast  numbers  of  public  characters  are 
grouped  unreally  together,  and  politics  are  made  to  give 
an  interest  to  art. 

Mr.  Herbert's  picture  of  "  Sir  Thomas  More  and  his 
Daughter,  watching  from  the  Prisoner's  Room  in  the  Tower 
Four  Monks  led  away  to  Execution,"  is  not  the  most  elabo- 


MAY   GAMBOLS.  257 

rate,  jjerhaps,  but  the  very  best  of  this  painter's  works.  It 
is  full  of  grace,  and  sentiment,  and  religious  unction.  You 
see  that  the  painter's  heart  is  in  the  scenes  which  he  rep- 
resents. The  countenances  of  the  two  figures  are  finely 
conceived ;  the  sorrowful  anxious  beauty  of  the  daughter's 
face,  the  resigned  humility  of  the  mart^a-  at  her  side,  and 
the  accessories  or  properties  of  the  pious  little  drama  are 
cleverly  and  poetically  introduced ;  such  as  mystic  sen- 
tences of  hope  and  trust  inscribed  by  former  sufferers  on 
the  walls,  the  prisoner's  rosary  and  book  of  prayers  to  the 
Virgin,  that  lie  on  his  bed.  These  types  and  emblems  of 
the  main  story  are  not  obtruded,  but  serve  to  increase  the 
interest  of  the  action  ;  just  as  you  hear  in  a  concerted 
piece  of  music  a  single  instrument  playing  its  little  plain 
tive  part  alone,  and  3'et  belonging  to  the  whole. 

If  you  want  to  see  a  picture  where  costume  is  7iot  repre- 
sented, beliold  ^Ir.  Lauder's  ''  Claverhouse  ordering  Morton 
to  Execution."  There  sits  Claverhouse  in  the  centre,  in 
a  Kean  wig  and  ringlets,  such  as  was  never  worn  in  any 
age  of  this  world,  except  at  the  theatre,  in  181C,  and  he 
scowls  with  a  true  melodramatic  ferocity ;  and  he  lifts  a  sign- 
post of  a  finger  towards  jNIorton,  who  forthwith  begins  to 
writhe  and  struggle  into  an  attitude  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  subordinate,  cuirassed,  buft-coated  gentry.  Mor- 
ton is  represented  in  tights,  slippers,  and  a  tunic  ;  some- 
thing after  the  fashion  of  Retzsch's  figures  in  "  Faust " 
(which  are  refinements  of  costumes  worn  a  century  and  a 
half  before  the  days  when  Charles  disported  at  Tillietud- 
lem) ;  and  he,  too,  must  proceed  to  scowl  and  frown  "  with 
a  flashing  eye  and  a  distended  nostril,"  as  they  say  in  the 
novels, — as  Gomersal  scowls  at  Widdicomb  before  the 
combat  between  those  two  chiefs  begins  ;  and  while  they 
are  measuring  each  other  according  to  tlie  stage  wont,  from 
the  toe  of  the  yellow  boot  up  to  the  tij)  of  the  stage-wig. 
There  is  a  tragedy  heroine  in  ]\Ir.  Lauder's  picture,  strik- 
ing her  attitude,  too,  to  complete  the  scene.  It  is  entirely 
unnatural,  theatrical,  of  the  Davidgian,  nay,  Richardsonian 
drama,  and  all  such  attempts  at  effect  must  be  reprehended 
by  the  stern  critic.  When  such  a  cool  practitioner  as 
Claverhouse  ordered  a  gentleman  to  be  shot,  he  would  not 
put  himself  into  an  attitude  :  when  such  a  quiet  gentleman 
as  Morton  received  the  unpleasant  communication  in  the 
midst  of  a  company  of  grenadiers  who  must  overpower 
him,  and  of  ladies  to  whom  his  resistance  would   be  un- 


258      ClilTICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

pleasant,  he  would  act  like  a  man  and  go  out  quietly,  not 
stop  to  rant  and  fume  like  a  fellow  in  a  booth.  I  believe 
it  is  in  Mr.  Henningsen's  book  that  there  is  a  story 
of  Zumalacarreguy,  Don  Carlos's  Dundee,  who,  sitting  at 
the  table  with  a  Christino  prisoner,  smoking  cigars  and 
playing  piquet  very  quietly,  received  a  communication 
which  he  handed  over  to  the  Christino.  "  Your  people," 
says  he,  ''have  shot  one  of  my  officers,  and  I  have  ])rom- 
ised  reprisals ;  I  am  sorry  to  say,  my  dear  general,  that  I 
must  execute  you  in  twenty  minutes  !  "  And  so  the  two 
gentlemen  finished  their  game  at  piquet,  and  parted  com- 
pany—  the  one  to  inspect  his  lines,  the  other  for  the 
courtyard  hard  by,  where  a  file  of  grenadiers  was  waiting 
to  receive  his  excellency  —  with  mutual  politeness  and 
regret.  It  was  the  fortune  of  war.  There  was  no  help  for 
it ;  no  need  of  ranting  and  stamping,  which  would  ill 
become  any  person  of  good  breeding. 

The  Scotch  artists  have  a  tragic  taste ;  and  we  should 
mention  with  especial  praise  Mr.  Duncan's  picture  with  the 
agreeable  epigraph,  "  She  set  the  bairn  on  the  ground  and 
tied  up  his  head,  and  straightened  his  body,  and  covered 
him  with  her  plaid,  and  laid  down  and  wept  over  him." 
The  extract  is  from  Walker's  "  Life  of  Peden ; "  the 
martyrdom  was  done  on  the  body  of  a  boy  by  one  of  those 
bloody  troopers  whom  we  have  seen  in  Mr.  Lauder's  picture 
carrying  off  poor  shrieking  Morton.  Mr.  Duncan's  picture 
is  very  fine,  —  dark,  rich,  and  deep  in  sentiment ;  the  woman 
is  painted  with  some  of  Kubens's  swelling  lines  (such  as 
may  be  seen  in  some  of  his  best  Magdalens),  and  with  their 
rich  tones  of  gray.  If  a  certain  extremely  heavy  Cupid 
poising  in  the  air  by  a  miracle  be  the  other  picture  of  Mr. 
Duncan's,  it  can  be  only  said  that  his  tragedy  is  better  than 
his  lightsome  compositions  —  an  arrow  from  yonder  lad 
would  bruise  the  recipient  black  and  blue. 

Another  admirable  picture  of  a  Scotch  artist  is  427,  "  The 
Highland  Lament,"  by  Alexander  Johnston.  It  is  a  shame 
to  put  such  a  picture  in  such  a  place.  It  hangs  on  the 
ground,  almost  invisible,  while  dozens  of  tawdry  portraits 
are  staring  at  you  on  the  line.  Could  Mr.  Johnston's  pic- 
ture be  but  seen  properly,  its  great  beauty  and  merit  would 
not  fail  to  strike  hundreds  of  visitors  who  pass  it  over  now. 
A  Highland  piper  comes  running  forward,  playing  some 
wild  lament  on  his  dismal  instrument ;  the  women  follow 
after,  wailing  and  sad ;  the  mournful  procession  winds  over 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  259 

a  dismal  moor.  The  picture  is  as  clever  for  its  fine  treat- 
ment and  color,  for  the  grace  and  action  of  the  figure,  as  it 
is  curious  as  an  illustration  of  national  manners. 

In  speaking  of  the  Scotch  painters,  the  Wilkie-like  pic- 
tures of  Mr.  Fraser,  with  their  peculiar  smear?/  manner, 
their  richness  of  tone,  and  their  pleasant  effect  and  humor, 
should  not  be  passed  over ;  while  those  of  ^Ir.  Geddes  and 
Sir  William  Allan  may  be  omitted  with  perfect  propriet}-. 
The  latter  presents  her  Majesty  and  Prince  Albert  perched 
on  a  rock  ;  the  former  has  a  figure  from  Walter  Scott,  of 
very  little  interest  to  any  but  the  parties  concerned. 

Among  the  Irish  painters  we  remark  two  portraits  by 
Mr.  Crowley,  representing  ^Irs.  Aikenhead,  superioress  of 
the  Sisters  of  Charity  in  Ireland,  who  gives  a  very  favorable 
picture  of  the  Society  —  for  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  an 
abbess  more  comfortable,  kind,  and  healtliy-looking;  and  a 
portrait  of  Dr.  ^lurray,  Roman  Catholic  Archbishop  of 
Dublin,  not  a  good  picture  of  a  fine,  benevolent,  and  vener- 
able head.  We  do  not  know  whether  the  painter  of  149, 
"  An  Irish  Peasant  awaiting  her  Husband's  Return,"  ]\[r. 
Anthony,  is  an  Irishman ;  but  it  is  a  pretty  sad  picture, 
which  well  characterizes  the  poverty,  the  affection,  and  the 
wretchedness  of  the  poor  Irish  cabin,  and  tells  sweetly  and 
modestly  a  plaintive  stor}-.  The  largest  work  in  the  exhibi- 
tion is  from  the  pencil  of  an  Irishman,  Mr.  Leahy,  "Lady 
Jane  Grey  praying  before  Execution.''  One  cannot  but 
admire  the  courage  of  artists  who  paint  great  works  upon 
these  tragic  subjects ;  great  works  quite  unfitted  for  any 
private  room,  and  scarcely  suited  to  an}'  public  one.  But, 
large  as  it  is,  it  may  be  said  (without  any  playing  upon 
words)  that  the  work  grows  upon  estimation.  The  painting 
is  hard  and  incomplete  ;  but  the  principal  figure  excellent : 
the  face  especially  is  finely  painted  and  full  of  great  beaut}'. 
Also,  in  the  Irish  pictures  may  be  included  Mr.  Solomon 
Hart's  Persian  gentleman  smoking  a  calahan,  — a  sly  hint 
at  the  learned  Sergeant  member  for  Cork,  who  has  often 
done  the  same  thing. 

Mr.  Maclise's  little  scene  from  "  Undine  "  does  not  seem 
to  us  German  in  character,  as  some  of  the  critics  call  it, 
because  it  is  clear  and  hard  in  line.  What  German  artist 
is  there  who  can  draw  with  this  astonishing  vigor,  precision, 
and  variet}^  of  attitude  ?  The  picture  is  one  of  admirable 
and  delightful  fancy.  The  swarms  of  solemn  little  fairies 
crowding  lound  L^ndine  and  her  somewhat  theatrical  lover 


260      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

may  keep  a  spectator  for  hours  employed  in  pleasure  and 
wonder.  They  look  to  be  the  real  portraits  of  the  little 
people,  sketched  by  the  painter  in  some  visit  to  their  coun- 
try. There  is,  especially,  on  a  branch  in  the  top  corner  of 
the  picture,  a  conversation  going  on  between  a  fairy  and  a 
squirrel  (avIio  is  a  fairy  too),  which  must  have  been  taken 
from  nature,  or  Mother  Bunch's  delightful  super-nature. 
How  awful  their  great  glassy  blue  eyes  are  !  How  they 
peer  out  from  under  grass,  and  out  of  flowers,  and  from 
twigs  and  branches,  and  swing  off  over  the  tree-top,  singing 
shrill  little  fairy  choruses  !  We  must  have  the  Fairy  Tales 
illustrated  by  this  gentleman,  that  is  clear ;  he  is  the  only 
person,  except  Tieck,  of  Dresden,  who  knows  anything 
about  them.  —  Yes,  there  is  some  one  else  ;  and  a  word  may 
be  introduced  here  in  welcome  to  the  admirable  young- 
designer  whose  hand  has  lately  been  employed  to  illustrate 
the  columns  of  our  facetious  friend  (and  the  friend  of  every- 
body) Punch.  This  young  artist  (who  has  avowed  his  name,, 
a  very  well-known  one,  that  of  Doyle)  has  poured  into 
FiincKs  columns  a  series  of  drawings  quite  extraordinary 
for  their  fancy,  their  variety,  their  beauty  and  fun.  It  is 
the  true  genius  of  fairyland,  of  burlesque  which  never 
loses  sight  of  beauty.  Friend  Punches  very  wrapper  is 
quite  a  marvel  in  this  way,  at  which  we  can  never  look 
without  discovering  some  new  little  quip  of  humor  or 
pleasant  frolic  of  grace. 

And  if  Ave  have  had  reason  to  complain  of  Mr.  Leslie's 
"  Comus  "  as  deficient  in  poetry,  what  person  is  there  that 
will  not  welcome  "  Sancho,"  although  we  have  seen  him 
before  almost  in  the  same  attitude,  employed  in  the  same 
way,  recounting  his  adventures  to  the  kind  smiling  duchess 
as  she  sits  in  state  ?  There  is  only  the  sour  old  duenna 
who  refuses  to  be  amused,  and  nothing  has  ever  amused 
her  these  sixty  years.  But  the  ladies  are  all  charmed,  and 
tittering  with  one  another;  the  black  slave  who  leans 
against  the  pillar  has  gone  off  in  an  honest  fit  of  downright 
laughter.  Even  the  little  dog,  the  wonderful  little  Blenheim, 
by  the  lady's  side,  would  laugh  if  she  could  (but,  alas  !  it  is 
impossible),  as  the  other  little  dog  is  said  to  have  done  on 
the  singular  occasion  when  "the  cow  jumped  over  the 
moon."  *  The  glory  of  dulness  is  in  Sancho's  face.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  a  man  in  the  world  —  no,  not  even  in 

*  "  Qualia  prospiciens  Catulus  ferit  sethera  risu 

Ipsaque  traus  lunse  conma  Vacca  salit."  —  Lucretius. 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  261 

the  House  of  Commons  —  so  stupid  as  that.  On  the  Whig 
side  there  is,  certainly,  —  but  no,  it  is  best  not  to  make 
comparisons  which  fall  short  of  the  mark.  This  iS;  indeed, 
the  Sanclio  that  Cervantes  drew. 

Although  the  editor  of  this  magazine  had  made  a  solemn 
condition  with  the  writer  of  this  notice  that  no  pictures 
taken  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  or  "  Gil  Bias  "  should, 
by  any  favor  or  pretence,  be  noticed  in  the  review ;  yet,  as 
the  great  picture  of  ^Ir,  Mulready  compelled  the  infraction 
of  the  rule,  rushing  through  our  resolve  by  the  indomitable 
force  of  genius,  we  must,  as  the  line  is  broken,  present 
other  Alcars,  Thornhills,  and  Olivias,  to  walk  in  and 
})romenade  themselves  in  our  columns,  in  spite  of  the  vain 
placards  at  the  entrance,  "Yicaks  of  Wakefield  not 
ADMITTED."  In  the  first  place  let  the  Eeverend  Dr.  Prim- 
rose and  ]\Iiss  Primrose  walk  up  in  Mr.  Hollins's  company. 
The  Vicar  is  mildly  expostulating  with  his  daughter  regard- 
ing the  attentions  of  Scjuire  Thornhill.  He  looks  mild, 
too  mild  ;  she  looks  ill-humored,  very  sulky.  Is  it  about  the 
scolding,  or  the  Squire  ?  The  figures  are  very  nicely 
painted ;  but  they  do  not  look  accustomed  (the  lady  espe- 
cially) to  the  dresses  they  wear.  After  them  come  Mrs. 
Primrose,  the  INIisses  and  the  young  Masters  Primrose, 
presented  by  Mr.  Frith  in  his  pretty  picture  (491).  Squire 
Thornhill  sits  at  his  ease,  and  recounts  his  town  adventures 
to  the  ladies ;  the  beautiful  Olivia  is  quite  lost  in  love  with 
the  slim  red-coated  dandy  ;  her  sister  is  listening  with  re- 
spect ;  but,  above  all,  the  old  lady  and  children  hearken 
witli  wonder.  These  latter  are  charming  figures,  as  indeed 
are  all  in  the  picture.  As  for  Gil  Bias  —  but  we  shall  be 
resolute  about  him.  Certain  Gil  Bias  there  are  in  the  ex- 
hibition eating  olla-podridas,  and  what  not.  Not  a  word, 
however,  shall  be  said  regarding  any  one  of  them. 

Among  the  figure-pieces  ^Ir.  Ward's  "Lafleur"  must  not 
be  forgotten,  which  is  pleasant,  lively,  and  smartly  drawn 
and  painted;  nor  Mr.  Gilbert's  "Pear-tree  Well,"  which 
contains  three  graceful  classical  figures,  which  are  rich  in 
effect  and  color ;  nor  ^Ir.  Maclnnes's  good  picture  of  Luther 
listening  to  the  sacred  ballad  (the  reformer  is  shut  up  in 
the  octagon-room)  ;  nor  a  picture  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  on 
his  rambles,  playing  the  flute  at  a  peasant's  door,  in  which 
the  color  is  very  pretty ;  the  character  of  the  French  peas- 
ants not  French  at  all ;  and  the  poet's  figure  easy,  correct, 
and  well  drawn. 


262     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART 

Among  more  serious  subjects  may  be  mentioned  with 
praise  Mr.  Dyce's  two  fierce  figures,  representing  King 
Joash  shooting  the  arrow  of  deliverance,  wliich  if  the 
critic  call  "  French,"  because  they  are  well  and  carefully 
drawn,  Mr.  Dyce  may  be  proud  of  being  a  Frenchman. 
Mr.  Lauder's  "Wise  and  Foolish  Virgins "  is  a  fine  com- 
position ;  the  color  sombre  and  mysterious ;  some  of  the 
figures  extremely  graceful,  and  the  sentiment  of  the  pic- 
ture excellent.  This  is  a  picture  which  would  infallibly 
have  had  a  chance  of  a  prize,  if  the  poor  dear  Art-Union 
were  free  to  act. 

Mr.  Elmore's  "  Rienzi  addressing  the  People  "  is  one  of 
the  very  best  pictures  in  the  gallery.  It  is  well  and  agree- 
ably colored,  bright,  pleasing,  and  airy.  A  group  of  people 
are  gathered  round  the  tribune,  who  addresses  them  among 
Roman  ruins  under  a  clear  blue  sky.  The  grouping  is  very 
good ;  the  figures  rich  and  picturesque  in  attitude  and  cos- 
tume. There  is  a  group  in  front  of  a  mother  and  child  who 
are  thinking  of  anything  but  Rienzi  and  liberty ;  who,  per- 
haps, ought  not  to  be  so  prominent,  as  they  take  away  from 
the  purpose  of  the  picture,  but  who  are  beautiful  wherever 
they  are.  And  the  picture  is  further  to  be  remarked  for  the 
clear,  steady,  and  honest  painting  which  distinguishes  it. 

What  is  to  be  said  of  Mr.  Poole's  "  Moors  beleaguered  in 
Valencia "  ?  A  clever  hideous  picture  in  the  very  worst 
taste ;  disease  and  desperation  characteristically  illustrated. 
The  Spaniards  beleaguer  the  town,  and  everybody  is  starv- 
ing. Mothers  with  dry  breasts  unable  to  nourish  infants ; 
old  men,  with  lean  ribs  and  bloodshot  eyes,  moaning  on  the 
pavement ;  brown  young  skeletons  pacing  up  and  down  the 
rampart,  some  raving,  all  desperate.  Such  is  the  agreeable 
theme  which  the  painter  has  taken  up.  It  is  worse  than 
last  year,  when  the  artist  only  painted  the  Plague  of  Lon- 
don. Some  did  recover  from  that.  All  these  Moors  will 
be  dead  before  another  day,  and  the  vultures  will  fatten  on 
their  lean  carcasses,  and  pick  out  their  red-hot  eyeballs. 
Why  do  young  men  indulge  in  these  horrors  ?  Young 
poets  and  romancers  often  do  so,  and  fancy  they  are  ex- 
hibiting "  power ;  "  whereas  nothing  is  so  easy.  Any  man 
with  mere  instinct  can  succeed  in  the  brutal  art.  The 
coarse  fury  of  Zurbaran  and  Morales  is  as  far  below  the 
sweet  and  beneficent  calm  of  Murillo  as  a  butcher  is  be- 
neath a  hero.  Don't  let  us  have  any  more  of  these  hideous 
exhibitions  —  these  ghoul  festivals.     It  may  be  remembered 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  263 

that  Amina  in  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  who  liked  church- 
yard suppers,  could  only  eat  a  grain  of  rice  when  she  came 
to  natural  food.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  sly  satire  in  the 
apologue  which  might  be  applied  to  many  (especially  French) 
literary  and  pictorial  artists  of  the  convulsionar}-  school. 

We  must  not  take  leave  of  the  compositions  without  men- 
tioning Mr.  Laudseer's  wonderful  '•'  Shoeing  -'  and  Stag;  the 
latter  the  most  poetical,  the  former  the  most  dexterous,  per- 
haps, of  the  works  of  this  accomplished  painter.  The  latter 
picture,  at  a  little  distance,  exjoands  almost  into  the  size  of 
nature.  The  enormous  stag  by  the  side  of  a  great  blue  north- 
ern lake  stalks  over  the  snow  down  to  the  shore,  whither 
his  mate  is  coming  through  the  water  to  join  him.  Snowy 
mountains  bend  round  the  lonely  landscape,  the  stars  are 
shining  out  keenly  in  the  deep  icy  blue  overhead ;  in  a  word, 
your  teeth  begin  to  chatter  as  you  look  at  the  picture,  and 
it  can't  properly  be  seen  without  a  great-coat.  The  donkey 
and  the  horse  in  the  shoeing  picture  are  prodigious  imitations 
of  nature  ;  the  blacksmith  only  becomes  impalpable.  There 
is  a  charming  portrait  in  the  great  room  by  the  same  artist 
in  which  the  same  effect  may  be  remarked.  A  lady  is  rep- 
resented with  two  dogs  in  her  lap ;  the  dogs  look  real ;  the 
lady  a  thin  unsubstantial  vision  of  a  beautiful  woman.  You 
ought  to  see  the  landscape  through  her. 

Amongst  the  landscape-painters,  Mr.  Stanfield  has  really 
painted  this  year  better  than  any  former  year  —  a  difficult 
matter.  The  pictures  are  admirable,  the  drawing  of  the 
water  wonderful,  tlie  look  of  freshness  and  breeze  and 
motion  conveyed  with  delightful  skill.  All  Mr.  Cres- 
wick's  pictures  will  be  seen  with  pleasure,  especially  the 
delicious  '•  Summer  Evening ; ''  the  most  airy  and  clear,  and 
also  the  most  poetical  of  his  landscapes.  The  fine  '•'  Even- 
ing Scene  "  of  Danby  also  seems  to  have  the  extent  and 
splendor,  and  to  suggest  the  solemn  feelings  of  a  vast 
mountain-scene  at  sunset.  The  admirers  of  Sir  Augustus 
Callcott's  soft  golden  landscapes  will  here  find  some  of  his 
most  delightful  pieces.  Mr.  Roberts  has  painted  his  best 
in  his  Nile  scene,  and  his  French  architectural  pieces  are  of 
scarce  inferior  merit.  Mr.  Lee,  Mr.  Witherington,  and  Mr. 
Leitch  have  contributed  works,  showing  all  their  well-known 
qualities  and  skill.  As  for  Mr.  Turner,  he  has  out-prodi- 
gied  almost  all  former  prodigies.  He  has  made  a  picture 
with  real  rain,  behind  which  is  real  sunshine,  and  you  ex- 
pect a  rainbow  every  minute.     Meanwnile,  there  comes  a 


264     CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

train  down  npon  you,  really  moving  at  the  rate  of  fifty  miles 
an  hour,  and  Avhich  the  reader  had  best  make  haste  to  see, 
lest  it  should  dash  out  of  the  picture,  and  be  away  up  Char- 
ing Cross  through  the  wall  opposite.  All  these  wonders 
are  performed  with  means  not  less  wonderful  than  the 
effects  are.  The  rain,  in  the  astounding  picture  called 
'■'Rain  —  Steam  —  Speed,"  is  composed  of  dabs  of  dirty 
putty  slapiied  on  to  the  canvas  with  a  trowel ;  the  sun- 
shine scintillates  out  of  very  thick  smeary  lumps  of 
chrome  yellow.  The  shadows  are  produced  by  cool  tones 
of  crimson  lake,  and  quiet  glazings  of  vermilion.  Al- 
though the  fire  in  the  steam-engine  looks  as  if  it  were 
red,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  it  is  not  painted  with 
cobalt  and  pea-green.  And  as  for  the  manner  in  which  the 
^'  Speed "  is  done,  of  that  the  less  said  the  better,  —  only 
it  is  a  positive  fact  that  there  is  a  steam-coach  going  fifty 
miles  an  hour.  The  world  has  never  seen  anything  like 
this  picture. 

In  respect  of  the  portraits  of  the  exhibition,  if  Eoyal 
Academicians  will  take  the  word  of  the  Morning  Post, 
the  Morning  Chronicle,  the  Spectator,  and,  far  above  all, 
of  Fraser^s  Magazine,  they  will  pause  a  little  before  they 
hang  such  a  noble  portrait  as  that  of  W.  Conyngham,  Es- 
quire, by  Samuel  Lawrence,  away  out  of  sight,  while  some 
of  their  own  paltry  canvases  meet  the  spectator  nose  to 
nose.  The  man  with  the  gloves  of  Titian  in  the  Louvre 
has  evidently  inspired  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  his  picture  is  so 
far  an  imitation  ;  but  what  then  ?  it  is  better  to  imitate 
great  things  well  than  to  imitate  a  simpering  barber's 
dummy,  like  No.  10,000,  let  us  say,  or  to  perpetrate  yonder 
horrors,  —  weak,  but,  oh !  how  heavy,  smeared,  flat,  pink 
and  red,  grinning,  ill-drawn  portraits  (such  as  Nos.  99,999 
and  99,999'^)  which  the  old  Academicians  perpetrate  !  You 
are  right  to  keep  the  best  picture  in  the  room  out  of  the 
way,  to  be  sure  ;  it  would  sternly  frown  your  simpering 
unfortunates  out  of  countenance ;  but  let  us  have  at  least  a 
chance  of  seeing  the  good  pictures.  Have  one  room,  say, 
for  the  Academicians,  and  another  for  the  clever  artists. 
Diminish  your  number  of  exhibited  pictures  to  six,  if  you 
like,  but  give  the  young  men  a  chance.  It  is  pitiful  to  see 
their  works  pushed  out  of  sight,  and  to  be  offered  what  you 
give  us  in  exchange. 

This  does  not  apply  to  all  the  esquires  who  paint  por- 
traits; but  with  regard  to  the  names  of  the  delinquents,  it 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  265 

is  best  to  be  silent,  lest  a  showing  up  of  them  should  have 
a  terrible  effect  on  the  otherwise  worthy  men,  and  drive 
them  to  an  untimely  desperation.  So  I  shall  say  little 
about  the  portraits,  mentioning  merely  that  Mr.  Grant  has 
one  or  two,  a  small  one  especially,  of  great  beauty  and 
ladylike  grace ;  and  one  very  bad  one  such  as  that  of  Lord 
Forrester.  Mr.  Pickersgill  has  some  good  heads ;  the  little 
portrait  of  Mr.  Ains worth  by  !Mr.  ^Maclise  is  as  clever  and 
like  as  the  artist  knows  how  to  make  it.  Mr.  Middleton 
has  some  female  heads  especially  beautiful.  Mrs.  Carpen- 
ter is  one  of  the  most  manly  painters  in  the  exhibition ; 
and  if  you  walk  into  the  miniature-room,  you  may  look  at 
the  delicious  little  gems  from  the  pencil  of  Sir  William 
Ross,  those  still  more  graceful  and  poetical  by  Mr.  Thor- 
burn,  and  the  delightful  coxcombries  of  Mr.  Chalon.  I 
have  found  out  a  proper  task  for  that  gentleman,  and 
hereby  propose  that  he  should  illustrate  ''  Coningsby." 

In  the  statue-room,  Mr.  Gibson's  classic  group  attracts 
attention  and  deserves  praise ;  and  the  busts  of  Parker, 
Macdonald,  Behnes,  and  other  well-known  portrait-sculp- 
tors, have  all  their  usual  finish,  skill,  and  charm. 

At  the  ^yater-color  Gallery  the  pleased  spectator  lingers 
as  usual  delighted,  surrounded  by  the  pleasant  drawings 
and  the  most  genteel  company.  It  requires  no  small  cour- 
age to  walk  through  that  avenue  of  plush  breeches  with 
which  the  lobby  is  lined,  and  to  pass  two  files  of  whiskered 
men,  in  canes  and  huge  calves,  who  contemptuously  regard 
us  poor  fellows  with  Bluchers  and  gingham  umbrellas. 
But  these  passed,  you  are  in  the  best  society.  Bishops,  I 
have  remarked,  frequent  this  gallery  in  venerable  num- 
bers ;  likewise  dignified  clergymen  with  rosettes  ;  Quaker- 
esses, also,  in  dove-colored  silks  meekly  changing  color; 
squires  and  their  families  from  the  country  ;  and  it  is  a 
fact  that  you  never  can  enter  the  Gallery  without  seeing  a 
wonderfully  prett}'  girl.  This  fact  merits  to  be  generally 
known,  and  is  alone  worth  the  j)rice  of  this  article. 

I  suspect  that  there  are  some  people  from  the  country 
who  admire  ^Ir.  Prout  still;  those  fresh,  honest,  unalloyed 
country  appetites  I  There  are  the  Prout  Xurembergs  and 
Venices  still ;  the  awnings,  the  water-posts,  and  the  red- 
capped  bargemen  drawn  with  a  reed  pen  ;  but  we  biases 
young  roues  about  London  get  tired  of  these  simi:)le  dishes, 
and  must  have  more  excitement.     There,  too,  are  Mr.  Hill's 


266     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

stags  with  pink  stomachs,  his  spinach  pastures  and  mottled 
farmhouses ;  also  innumerable  windy  downs  and  heaths  by 
Mr.  Copley  Fielding:  —  in  the  which  breezy  flats  I  have  so 
often  wandered  before  with  burnt-sienna  ploughboys,  that 
the  walk  is  no  longer  tempting. 

Not  so,  however,  the  marine  pieces  of  Mr.  Bentley.  That 
gentleman,  to  our  thinking,  has  never  painted  so  well. 
Witness  his  "Indiaman  towed  up  the  Thames''  (53),  his 
"Signalling  the  Pilot"  (161),  and  his  admirable  view  of 
"Mont  Saint  Michel"  (127),  in  which  the  vessel  quite 
dances  and  falls  on  the  water.  He  deserves  to  divide  the 
prize  with  Mr.  Stanfield  at  the  Academy. 

All  the  works  of  a  clever  young  landscape-painter,  Mr. 
G.  A.  Fripp,  may  be  looked  at  with  pleasure;  they  show 
great  talent,  no  small  dexterity,  and  genuine  enthusiastic 
love  of  nature.  Mr.  Alfred  Fripp,  a  tigure-painter,  merits 
likewise  very  much  praise ;  his  works  are  not  complete  as 
yet,  but  his  style  is  thoughtful,  dramatic,  and  original. 

Mr.  Hunt's  dramas  of  one  or  two  characters  are  as  enter- 
taining and  curious  as  ever.  His  "  Outcast  "  is  amazingly 
fine,  and  tragic  in  character.  His  "  Sick  Cigar-boy,"  a  won- 
derful delineation  of  nausea.  Look  at  the  picture  of  the 
toilet,  in  which,  with  the  parlor-tongs,  Betty,  the  housemaid, 
is  curling  little  miss's  hair :  there  is  a  dish  of  yellow  soap 
in  that  drawing,  and  an  old  comb  and  brush,  the  fidelity  of 
which  makes  the  delicate  beholder  shudder.  On  one  of  the 
screens  there  are  some  "  bird's-nests,"  out  of  which  I  am 
surprised  no  spectator  has  yet  stolen  any  of  the  eggs  — 
you  have  but  to  stoop  down  and  take  them. 

Mr.  Taylor's  delightful  drawings  are  even  more  than 
ordinarily  clever.  His  "Houseless  Wanderers"  is  worthy 
of  Hogarth  in  humor ;  most  deliciously  colored  and  treated. 
"  The  Gleaner "  is  full  of  sunshine  ;  the  larder  quite  a 
curiosity,  as  showing  the  ease,  truth,  and  dexterity  with 
which  the  artist  washes  in  his  flowing  delineations  from 
nature.  In  his  dogs,  you  don't  know  which  most  to  admire, 
the  fidelity  with  which  the  animals  are  painted,  or  the  ease 
with  which  they  are  done. 

This  gift  of  facility  Mr.  Cattprmole  also  possesses  to  an 
amazing  extent.  As  pieces  of  effect,  his  "Porch"  and 
"Rook-shooting"  are  as  wonderful  as  they  are  pleasing. 
His  large  picture  of  "  Monks  in  a  Refectory  "  is  very  fine ; 
rich,  original,  and  sober  in  color;  excellent  in  sentiment 
and  general  grouping ;  in  individual  attitude  and  drawing 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  267 

not  sufficiently  correct.  As  the  figures  aie  much  smaller 
than  those  in  the  refectory,  these  faults  are  less  visible  in 
the  magnificent  "Battle  for  the  Bridge/'  a  composition, 
perhaps,  the  most  complete  that  the  artist  has  yet  produced. 
The  landscape  is  painted  as  grandly  as  Salvator;  the  sky 
wonderfully  airy,  the  sunshine  shining  through  the  glades 
of  the  wood,  the  huge  trees  rocking  and  swaying  as  the 
breeze  rushes  by  them;  the  battling  figures  are  full  of 
hurr}',  fire,  and  tumult.  All  these  things  are  rather  indi- 
cated by  the  painter  than  defined  by  him ;  but  such  hints 
are  enough  from  such  a  genius.  The  cliarmed  and  capti- 
vated imagination  is  quite  ready  to  supply  what  else  is 
wanting. 

Mr.  Frederick  Xash  has  some  unpretending,  homely, 
exquisitely  faithful  scenes  in  the  Rhine  country,  "Bop- 
part,"  "  Bacharach,"  etc.,  of  which  a  sojourner  in  those 
charming  districts  will  always  be  glad  to  have  a  reminis- 
cence. Mr.  Joseph  Nash  has  not  some  of  the  cleverest  of 
his  mannerisms,  nor  ]\Ir.  Lake  Price  the  best  of  his  smart, 
dandified,  utterly  unnatural  exteriors.  By  far  the  best 
designs  of  this  kind  are  the  Windsor  and  Buckingham 
Palace  sketches  of  Mr.  Douglas  ^Morison,  executed  with 
curious  fidelity  and  skill.  There  is  the  dining-hall  in 
Buckingham  Palace,  with  all  the  portraits,  all  the  candles 
in  all  the  chandeliers  ;  the  China  gimcracks  over  the 
mantelpiece,  the  dinner-table  set  out,  the  napkins  folded 
mitrewise,  the  round  water-glasses,  the  sherry-glasses,  the 
champagne  ditto,  and  all  in  a  space  not  so  big  as  two  pages 
of  this  Magazine.  There  is  the  Queen's  own  chamber  at 
Windsor,  her  Majest3''s  piano,  her  royal  writing-table,  an 
escritoire  with  pigeon-holes,  where  the  august  papers  are 
probabl}'  kej^t ;  and  ver}-  curious,  clever,  and  ugly  all  these 
pictures  of  furniture  are  too,  and  will  be  a  model  for  the 
avoidance  of  upholsterers  in  coming  ages. 

Mr.  John  William  Wright's  sweet  female  figures  must 
not  be  passed  over;  nor  the  pleasant  Stothard-like  draw- 
ings of  his  veteran  namesake.  The  "Gypsies"  of  Mr. 
Oakley  will  also  be  looked  at  with  pleasure  ;  and  this  gen- 
tleman may  be  complimented  as  likely  to  rival  the  Rich- 
monds  and  the  Chalons  "'  in  another  place,"  where  may  be 
seen  a  verj^  good  full-length  portrait  drawn  by  him. 

The  exhibition  of  the  New  Society  of  Water-color  Painters 
has  grown  to  be  quite  as  handsome  and  agreeable  as  that 


268      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

of  its  mamma,  tlie  old  Society  in  Pall  Mall  East.  Those 
who  remember  this  little  band  of  painters,  to  whom  the 
gates  of  the  elder  Gallery  were  hopelessly  shut,  must  be 
glad  to  see  the  progress  the  younger  branch  has  made  ; 
and  we  have  every  reason  to  congratulate  ourselves  that, 
instead  of  one  pleasant  exhibition  annually,  the  amateur 
can  recreate  himself  now  with  two.  Many  of  the  pictures 
liere  are  of  very  great  merit. 

Mr.  Warren's  Egyptian  pictures  are  clever,  and  only  need 
to  be  agreeable  where  he  takes  a  pretty  subject,  such  as 
that  of  the  "  Egyptian  Lady "  (150)  ;  his  work  is  pretty 
sure  to  be  followed  by  that  welcome  little  ticket  of  emerald 
green  in  the  corner,  which  announces  that  a  purchaser  has 
made  his  appearance.  But  the  eye  is  little  interested  by 
views  of  yellow  deserts  and  sheikhs,  and  woolly-headed 
warriors  with  ugly  wooden  swords. 

And  yet  mere  taste,  grace,  and  beauty  won't  always  suc- 
ceed ;  witness  Mr.  Absolon's  drawings,  of  which  few  —  far 
too  few  —  boast  the  green  seal  and  which  are  one  and  all 
of  them  charming.  There  is  one  in  the  first  room  from 
the  "  V-c-r  of  W-kef — Id  "  (we  are  determined  not  to  write 
that  name  again),  which  is  delightfully  composed,  and 
a  fresh,  happy  picture  of  a  country  fete.  "The  Dart- 
moor Turf-gatherers "  (87)  is  still  better ;  the  picture  is 
full  of  air,  grace,  pretty  drawing,  and  brilliant  color,  and 
yet  no  green  seal.  "A  Little  Sulky;"  "  The  Devonshire 
Cottage-door ;  "  "  The  Widow  on  the  Stile  ;  "  "  The  Stock- 
ing-knitter ; "  are  all,  too,  excellent  in  their  way,  and  bear 
the  artist's  cachet  of  gentle  and  amiable  grace.  But  the 
drawings,  in  point  of  execution,  do  not  go  far  enough ; 
they  are  not  sufficiently  bright  to  attract  the  eyes  of  that 
great  and  respectable  body  of  amateurs  who  love  no  end  of 
cobalt,  carmine,  stippling,  and  plenty  of  emerald  green  and 
vermilion  ;  they  are  not  made  out  sufficiently  in  line  to 
rank  as  pictures. 

Behold  how  Mr.  Corbould  can  work  when  he  likes  —  how 
he  can  work  you  off  the  carmine  stippling  !  In  his  large 
piece,  "The  Britons  deploring  the  Departure  of  the  Ro- 
mans," there  is  much  very  fine  and  extraordinary  clever- 
ness of  pencil.  Witness  the  draperies  of  the  two  women, 
which  are  painted  with  so  much  cleverness  and  beauty 
that,  indeed,  one  regrets  that  one  of  them  has  not  got  a 
little  drapery  more.  The  same  tender  regard  pervades  the 
bosom   while   looking   at   that   of  Joan   of   Arc,    "While 


MAY  GAMBOLS.  269 

engaged  in  the  servile  offices  of  her  situation  as  a  menial 
at  an  inn,  ruminating  upon  the  distressing  state  of  France." 
Her  "  servile  situation  "  seems  to  be  that  of  an  ostler  at 
the  establishment  in  question,  for  she  is  leading  down  a 
couple  of  animals  to  drink ;  and  as  for  the  '•  distressing 
state  of  France,"  it  ought  not,  surely,  to  affect  such  a  fat 
little  comfortable  simple-looking  undressed  body.  Bating 
the  figure  of  Joan,  who  looks  as  pretty  as  a  young  lady  out 
of  the  last  novel,  bating,  I  say,  baiting  Joan,  w^ho  never 
rode  horses,  depend  on't,  in  that  genteel  way,  the  picture  is 
exceedingly  skilful,  and  much  better  in  color  than  Mr. 
Corbould's  former  works. 

Mr.  Wehnert's  great  drawing  is  a  failure,  but  an  honor- 
able defeat.  It  shows  great  power  and  mastery  over  the 
material  with  which  he  works.  He  has  two  pretty  German 
figures  in  the  foreroom  :  ''  The  Innkeeper's  Daughter"  (38) ; 
and  "Perdita  and  Florizel "  (316).  Perhaps  he  is  the 
author  of  the  pretty  arabesques  with  which  the  Society 
have  this  year  ornamented  their  list  of  pictures ;  he  has  a 
German  name,  and  Enrflish  artists  can  have  no  need  to  be 
copying  from  Dusseldorf's  embellishments  to  decorate  the 
catalogues. 

Mr.  Haghe's  great  drawing  of  the  "  Death  of  Zurbaran  " 
is  not  interesting  from  any  peculiar  fineness  of  expression 
in  the  faces  of  the  actors  who  figure  in  this  gloomy  scene  ; 
but  it  is  largely  and  boldly  painted,  in  deep  sombre  washes 
of  colors,  with  none  of  the  niggling  prettinesses  to  w^hich 
artists  in  water-colors  seem  forced  to  resort  in  order  to 
bring  their  pictures  to  a  high  state  of  finish.  Here  the 
figures  and  the  draperies  look  as  if  they  were  laid  down  at 
once  with  a  bold  yet  careful  certainty  of  hand.  The  effec*^ 
of  the  piece  is  very  fine,  the  figures  grandly  grouped. 
Among  all  the  water-color  painters  we  know  of  none  who 
can  wield  the  brush  like  Mr.  Haghe,  with  his  skill,  his 
breadth,  and  his  certaint}^ 

]\[r.  Jenkins's  beautiful  female  figure  in  the  drawing 
called  '•  Love "  (123)  must  be  mentioned  with  especial 
praise  ;  it  is  charming  in  design,  color,  and  sentiment. 
Another  female  figure,  "The  Girl  at  the  Stile,"  by  the 
same  artist,  has  not  equal  finish,  roundness,  and  complete- 
ness, but  the  same  sentiment  of  tender  grace  and  beauty. 

Mr.  Bright's  landscape  drawings  are  exceedingly  clever, 
but  there  is  too  much  of  the  drawing-master  in  the  hand- 
ling, too  much  dash,  skurry,  sharp  cleverness  of  execution. 


270      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

Him  Mr.  Jutsum  follows  with  cleverness  not  quite  equal, 
and  mannerism  still  greater.  After  the  performance  of 
which  the  eye  reposes  gratefully  upon  some  pleasant  even- 
ing scenes  by  Mr.  Duncan  (3,  lO) ;  and  the  delightful 
^'  Shady  Land  "  of  ]\[r.  Youngman.  Mr.  Boys's  pictures  will 
be  always  looked  at  and  admired  for  the  skill  and  correct- 
ness of  a  hand  which,  in  drawing,  is  not  inferior  to  that  of 
Canaletto. 


As  for  Suffolk  Street,  that  delicious  retreat  may  or  may 
not  be  still  open.  I  have  been  there,  but  was  frightened 
from  the  place  by  the  sight  of  Haydon's  Napoleon,  with 
his  vast  head,  his  large  body,  and  his  little  legs,  staring 
out  upon  the  indigo  sea,  in  a  grass-green  coat.  Nervous 
people  avoid  that  sight,  and  the  Emperor  remains  in  Suffolk 
Street  as  lonely  as  at  Saint  Helena. 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  271 


PICTURE  GOSSIP :  IN  A  LETTER  FROM  MICHAEL 
ANGELO  TITMARSH. 

all'  illustrissimo  signor,  il  mio  sigxor  colendissimo, 
augusto  ha  arve,  pittore  in  roma. 

[Fraser's  Marjazine,  June,  1845.] 

I  AM  going  to  fulfil  the  promise,  my  dear  Augusto,  which 
I  uttered,  with  a  faltering  voice  and  streaming  eyes,  before 
I  stepped  into  the  jingling  old  courier's  vehicle,  which  was 
to  bear  me  from  Rome  to  Florence.  Can  I  forget  that 
night  —  that  parting?  Gaunter  stood  by  so  affected,  that 
for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  he  did  not  swear  once ; 
Flake's  emotion  exhibited  itself  in  audible  sobs  ;  Jellyson 
said  naught,  but  thrust  a  bundle  of  Torlonia's  four-baiocchi 
cigars  into  the  hand  of  a  departing  friend ;  and  you  your- 
self were  so  deeply  agitated  by  the  event,  that  you  took 
four  glasses  of  absinthe  to  string  up  your  nerves  for  the 
fatal  moment.  Strange  vision  of  past  days  !  —  for  vision 
it  seems  to  me  now.  And  have  I  been  in  Rome  really  and 
truly  ?  Have  I  seen  the  great  works  of  my  Christian 
namesake  of  the  Buonarotti  family,  and  the  light  arcades 
of  the  Vatican  ?  Have  I  seen  the  glorious  Apollo,  and  that 
other  divine  fiddle-player  whom  Raphael  painted?  Yes  — 
and  the  English  dandies  swaggering  on  the  Pincian  Hill ! 
Yes — and  have  eaten  woodcocks  and  drunk  Orvieto  hard 
by  the  huge  broad-shouldered  Pantheon  Portico,  in  the 
comfortable  parlors  of  the  "  Falcone."  Do  you  recollect 
that  speech  I  made  at  Bertini's  in  proposing  the  health 
of  the  Pope  of  Rome  on  Christmas-day  ?  —  do  you  remem- 
ber it  ?  /  don't.  But  his  Holiness,  no  doubt,  heard  of 
the  oration,  and  was  flattered  by  the  compliment  of  the 
illustrious  English  traveller. 

I  went  to  the  exhibition  of  the  Royal  Academy  lately, 
and  all  these  reminiscences  rushed  back  on  a  sudden  with 
affecting  volubility  ;  not  that  there  was  anything  in  or  out 
of  the  galler}-  which  put  me  specially  in  mind  of  sumptu- 
ous and  liberal  Rome ;  but  in  the  great  room  was  the  pic- 


ture  of  a  fellow  in  a  broad  Eoman  hat,  in  a  velvet  Eoman 
coat,  and  large  yellow  mustachios,  and  that  prodigious 
scowl  which  young  artists  assume  when  sitting  for  their 
portraits  —  he  was  one  of  our  set  at  Eonie  ;  and  the  scenes 
of  the  winter  came  back  pathetically  to  my  mind,  and  all 
the  friends  of  that  season,  —  Orifice  and  his  sentimental 
songs  ;  Father  Giraldo  and  his  poodle,  and  MacBrick  the 
trump  of  bankers.  Hence  the  determination  to  write  this 
letter  ;  but  the  hand  is  crabbed,  and  the  postage  is  dear,  and, 
instead  of  despatching  it  by  the  mail,  I  shall  send  it  to  you 
by  means  of  the  printer,  knowing  well  that  Fraser''s  Mag- 
azine is  eagerly  read  at  Eome,  and  not  (on  account  of  its 
morality)  excluded  in  the  Index  Expurgatorius. 

And  it  will  be  doubly  agreeable  to  me  to  write  to  you 
regarding  the  fine  arts  in  England,  because  I  know,  my 
dear  Augusto,  that  you  have  a  thorough  contempt  for  my 
opinion  —  indeed,  for  that  of  all  persons,  excepting,  of 
course,  one  whose  name  is  already  written  in  this  sentence. 
Such,  however,  is  not  the  feeling  , respecting  my  critical 
powers  in  this  country;  here  they  know  the  merit  of 
Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  better,  and  they  say,  ''  He  paints 
so  badly,  that,  hang  it !  he  must  be  a  good  judge ; "  in  the 
latter  part  of  which  opinion,  of  course,  I  agree. 

You  should  have  seen  the  consternation  of  the  fellows  at 
my  arrival !  —  of  our  dear  brethren  who  thought  I  was  safe 
at  Eome  for  the  season,  and  that  their  works,  exhibited  in 
May,  would  be  spared  the  dreadful  ordeal  of  my  ferocious 
eye.  When  I  entered  the  club-room  in  Saint  Martin's  Lane, 
and  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  like  a  bomb- 
shell, you  should  have  seen  the  terror  of  some  of  the  artists 
assembled !  They  knew  that  the  frightful  projectile  just 
launched  into  their  club-room  must  burst  in  the  natural 
course  of  things.  Who  would  be  struck  down  by  the  ex- 
plosion ?  was  the  thought  of  every  one.  Some  of  the  hyp- 
ocrites welcomed  me  meanly  back,  some  of  the  timid 
trembled,  some  of  the  savage  and  guilty  muttered  curses 
at  my  arrival.  You  should  have  seen  the  ferocious  looks 
of  Daggerly,  for  example,  as  he  scowled  at  me  from  the 
supper-table,  and  clutched  the  trenchant  weapon  with  which 
he  was  dissevering  his  toasted  cheese. 

From  the  period  of  my  arrival  until  that  of  the  opening 
of  the  various  galleries,  I  maintained  wdth  the  artists  every 
proper  affability,  but  still  was  not  too  familiar.  It  is  the 
custom  of  their  friends,  before  their  pictures  are  sent  in  to 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  273 

the  exhibitions,  to  visit  the  painters*  works  at  their  private 
studios,  and  there  encourage  them  by  saying,  '•  Bravo, 
Jones  "  (I  don't  mean  Jones,  K.A.,  for  I  dety  any  man  to 
say  bravo  to  him,  but  Jones  in  general)  !  "  Tomkins,  this 
is  your  greatest  work  ! "  "  Smith,  my  boy,  they  must  elect 
you  an  Associate  for  this  !  "  —  and  so  forth.  These  harm- 
less banalities  of  compliment  pass  between  the  painters  and 
their  friends  on  such  occasions.  I,  myself,  have  uttered 
many  such  civil  phrases  in  former  years  under  like  circum- 
stances. But  it  is  different  now.  Fame  has  its  privations 
as  well  as  its  pleasures.  The  friend  may  see  his  com- 
panions in  private,  but  the  Judge  must  not  pay  visits  to 
his  clients.  I  stayed  away  from  the  ateliers  of  all  the 
artists  (at  least,  I  only  visited  one,  kindly  telling  him  that 
he  didn't  count  as  an  artist  at  all),  and  would  only  see  their 
pictures  in  the  public  galleries,  and  judge  them  in  the  fair 
race  with  their  neighbors.  This  announcement  and  con- 
duct of  mine  filled  all  the  Berners  Street  and  Fitzroy 
Square  district  with  terror. 

As  I  am  writing  this,  after  having  had  my  fill  of  their 
works  as  publicly  exhibited,  in  the  country,  at  a  distance 
from  catalogues,  my  only  book  of  reference  being  an 
orchard  whereof  the  trees  are  now  bursting  into  full  blos- 
som,—  it  is  probable  that  m}*  remarks  will  be  rather  gen- 
eral than  particular,  that  I  shall  only  discourse  about 
those  pictures  wliieh  I  especially  remember,  or,  indeed, 
upon  any  other  point  suitable  to  ]ny  humor  and  your  de- 
lectation. 

I  went  round  the  galleries  with  a  young  friend  of  mine, 
who,  like  yourself  at  present,  has  been  a  student  of  ••  High 
Art "  at  Rome.  He  had  been  a  pupil  of  Monsieur  Ingres, 
at  Paris.  He  could  draw  rude  figures  of  eight  feet  high  to 
a  nicety,  and  had  produced  man}'  heroic  compositions  of 
that  pleasing  class  and  size,  to  the  great  profit  of  the 
paper-stretchers  both  in  Paris  and  Eome.  He  came  back 
from  the  latter  place  a  year  since,  with  his  beard  and 
mustachios  of  course.  He  could  find  no  room  in  all  New- 
man Street  and  Soho  big  enough  to  hold  him  and  his 
genius,  and  was  turned  out  of  a  decent  house  because,  for 
the  purpose  of  art,  he  wished  to  batter  down  the  partition- 
wall  between  the  two  drawing-rooms  he  had.  His  great 
cartoon  last  year  (whether  it  was  ••  Caractacus  before  Clau- 
dius," or  a  scene  from  the  '•'  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  I  won't 
say)  failed  somehow.     He  was   a  good  deal  cut  up  by  the 


274     CRITICISMS    IN  LITERATURE  AND   ART. 

defeat,  and  went  into  the  country  to  his  relations,  from 
whom  he  returned  after  a  while,  with  his  mustachios 
shaved,  clean  linen,  and  other  signs  of  depression.  He 
said  (with  a  hollow  laugh)  he  should  not  commence  on  his 
great  canvas  this  year,  and  so  gave  up  the  completion  of 
his  composition  of  "  Boadicea  addressing  the  Iceni :  "  quite 
a  novel  subject,  which,  with  that  ingenuity  and  profound 
reading  which  distinguish  his  brethren,  he  had  determined 
to  take  up. 

Well,  sir,  this  youth  and  I  went  to  the  exhibitions 
together,  and  I  watched  his  behavior  before  the  pictures. 
At  the  tragic,  swaggering,  theatrical-historical  pictures,  he 
yawned;  before  some  of  the  grand  flashy  landscapes,  he 
stood  without  the  least  emotion;  but  before  some  quiet 
scenes  of  humor  or  pathos,  or  some  easy  little  copy  of 
nature,  the  youth  stood  in  pleased  contemplation,  the  nails 
of  his  highlows  seemed  to  be  screwed  into  the  floor  there, 
and  his  face  dimpled  over  with  grins. 

"These  little  pictures,"  said  he,  on  being  questioned, 
"are  worth  a  hundred  times  more  than  the  big  ones.  In 
the  latter  you  see  signs  of  ignorance  of  every  kind,  weak- 
ness of  hand,  poverty  of  invention,  carelessness  of  draw- 
ing, lamentable  imbecility  of  thought.  Their  heroism  is 
borrowed  from  the  theatre,  their  sentiment  is  so  maudlin 
that  it  makes  you  sick.  I  see  no  symptoms  of  thought  or 
of  minds  strong  and  genuine  enough  to  cope  with  elevated 
subjects.  No  individuality,  no  novelty,  the  decencies  of 
costume  "  (my  friend  did  not  mean  that  the  figures  we  were 
looking  at  were  naked,  like  Mr.  Etty's,  but  that  they  were 
dressed  out  of  all  historical  propriety)  "are  disregarded; 
the  people  are  striking  attitudes,  as  at  the  Coburg.  There 
is  something  painful  to  me  in  this  naive  exhibition  of  in- 
competency, this  imbecility  that  is  so  unconscious  of  its 
own  failure.  If,  however,  the  aspiring  men  don't  succeed, 
the  modest  do  ;  and  what  they  have  really  seen  or  experi- 
enced, our  artists  can  depict  with  successful  accuracy  and 
delightful  skill.  Hence,"  says  he,  "I  would  sooner  have 
So-and-so's  little  sketch  ('A  Donkey  on  a  Common')  than 
What-d'ye-call-'em's  enormous  picture  ('  Sir  Walter  Manny 
and  the  Crusaders  discovering  Nova  Scotia '),  and  prefer 
yonder  unpretending  sketch,  '  Shrimp  Catchers,  Morning' 
(how  exquisitely  the  long  and  level  sands  are  touched  off ! 
how  beautifully  the  morning  light  touches  the  countenances 
of  the  fishermen,   and  illumines  the  rosy  features  of  the 


PICTURE    GOSSIP.  275 

ohrimps  !),  to  yonder  pretentious  illustration  from  Spenser, 
'  Sir  Botibol  rescues  I7na  from  Sir  Uglimore  in  the  Cave  of 
the  Enchantress  Ichthyosaura.' " 

I  am  only  mentioning  another's  opinion  of  these  pictures, 
and  would  not  of  course,  for  my  own  part,  wish  to  give 
pain  by  provoking  comparisons  that  must  be  disagreeable 
to  some  persons.  But  I  could  not  help  agreeing  with  my 
young  friend  and  saying,  ''Well,  then,  in  the  name  of 
goodness,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  only  like  what  is  real,  and 
natural,  and  unaffected  —  if  upon  such  works  you  gaze  with 
delight,  while  from  more  pretentious  performances  you 
turn  away  with  weariness,  why  the  deuce  must  7joii  be  in 
the  heroic  vein  ?  Why  don't  you  do  what  you  like  ?  "  The 
young  man  turned  round  on  the  iron  heel  of  his  highlows, 
and  walked  downstairs  clinking  them  sulkily. 

There  is  a  variety  of  classes  and  divisions  into  which 
the  works  of  our  geniuses  may  be  separated.  There  are 
the  heroic  pictures,  the  theatrical-heroic,  the  religious,  the 
historical-sentimental,  the  historical-familiar,  the  namby- 
pamby,  and  so  forth. 

Among  the  heroic  pictures  of  course  Mr.  Haydon's  ranks 
the  first,  its  size  and  pretentions  call  for  that  place.  It 
roars  out  to  you  as  it  were  with  a  Titanic  voice  from  among 
all  the  competitors  to  public  favor,  "  Come  and  look  at  me." 
A  broad-shouldered,  swaggering,  hulking  archangel,  with 
those  rolling  eyes  and  distending  nostrils  which  belong  to 
the  species  of  sublime  caricature,  stands  scowling  on  a 
sphere  from  which  the  devil  is  just  descending  bound  earth- 
wards. rUmets,  comets,  and  other  astronomical  phenomena 
roll  and  bhize  round  the  pair  and  flame  in  the  new  blue 
sky.  There  is  something  burly  and  bold  in  this  resolute 
genius  which  will  attract  only  enormous  subjects,  which 
will  deal  with  nothing  but  the  epic,  something  respectable 
even  in  the  defeats  of  such  characters.  I  was  looking  the 
other  day  at  Southampton  at  a  stout  gentleman  in  a  green 
coat  and  white  hat,  who  a  year  or  two  since  fully  believed 
that  he  could  walk  upon  the  water,  and  set  off  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  great  concourse  of  people  upon  his  supermarine 
journey.  There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  that  the  poor  fellow 
got  a  wetting  and  sank  amidst  the  jeers  of  all  his  beholders. 
I  think  somehow  they  should  not  have  laughed  at  that 
honest  ducked  gentleman,  they  should  have  respected  the 
faith  and  simplicity  which  led  him  unhesitatingly  to  ven- 
ture   upon  that    watery    experiment;    and  so,    instead   of 


276      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

laugliing  at  Haydon,  whicli  you  and  I  were  just  about  to 
do,  let  us  check  our  jocularity  and  give  him  credit  for  his 
great  earnestness  of  purpose.  I  begin  to  feel  the  world 
growing  more  pathetic  daily,  and  laugh  less  every  year  of 
my  life.  Why  laugh  at  idle  hopes,  or  vain  purposes,  or 
utter  blundering  self-confidence  ?  Let  us  be  gentle  with 
them  henceforth ;  who  knows  whether  there  may  not  be 
something  of  the  sort  chez  nous?  But  I  am  wandering 
from  Haydon  and  his  big  picture.  Let  us  hope  somebody 
will  buy.  Who,  I  cannot  tell :  it  will  do  for  a  chapel ;  it  is 
too  big  for  a  house.  I  have  it  —  it  might  answer  to  hang 
ujD  over  a  caravan  at  a  fair,  if  a  travelling  orrery  Avere  ex- 
hibited inside. 

This  may  be  sheer  impertinence  and  error ;  the  picture 
may  suit  some  tastes  —  it  does  the  Times  for  instance, 
which  pronounces  it  to  be  a  noble  work  of  the  highest  art ; 
whereas  the  Post  won't  believe  a  bit,  and  passes  it  by  with 
scorn.  What  a  comfort  it  is  that  there  are  different  tastes 
then,  and  that  almost  all  artists  have  thus  a  chance  of 
getting  a  livelihood  somehow  !  There  is  Martin,  for  an- 
other instance,  with  his  brace  of  pictures  about  Adam  and 
Eve,  which  I  would  venture  to  place  in  the  theatrical- 
heroic  class.  One  looks  at  those  strange  pieces  and  won- 
ders how  people  can  be  found  to  admire,  and  yet  they  do. 
Grave  old  people,  with  chains  and  seals,  look  dumfounded 
into  those  vast  perspectives,  and  think  the  apex  of  the 
sublime  is  reached  there.  In  one  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton's 
novels  there  is  a  passage  to  that  effect.  I  forget  where, 
but  there  is  a  new  edition  of  them  coming  out  in  single 
volumes,  and  I  am  positive  you  will  find  the  sentiment 
somewhere ;  they  come  up  to  his  conceptions  of  the  sub- 
lime, they  answer  to  his  ideas  of  beauty,  or  the  Beautiful 
as  he  writes  it  with  a  large  B.  He  is  himself  an  artist 
and  a  man  of  genius.  What  right  have  we  poor  devils  to 
question  such  an  authority  ?  Do  you  recollect  how  we  used 
to  laugh  in  the  Capitol  at  the  Domenichino  Sibyl  which 
this  same  author  praises  so  enthusiastically  ?  a  w^ooden, 
pink-faced,  goggle-eyed,  ogling  creature,  we  said  it  was,  with 
no  more  beauty  or  sentiment  than  a  wax  doll.  But  this 
was  our  conceit,  dear  Augusto.  On  subjects  of  art,  per- 
haps, there  is  no  reasoning  after  all :  or  who  can  tell  why 
children  have  a  passion  for  lollipops,  and  this  man  worships 
beef  while  t'other  adores  mutton  ?  To  the  child  lollipops 
may  be  the  truthful   and  beautiful,  and   why  should  not 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  277 

some  men  find  Martin's  pictures  as  much  to  their  taste  as 
Milton  ? 

Another  instance  of  the  blessed  variety  of  tastes  may  be 
mentioned  here  advantageously :  while,  as  you  have  seen, 
the  Times  awards  the  palm  to  Haydon,  and  Sir  Lytton 
exalts  Martin  as  the  greatest  painter  of  the  English  school, 
the  Chronicle,  quite  as  well  informed,  no  doubt,  says  that 
Mr.  Eddis  is  the  great  genius  of  the  present  season,  and 
that  his  picture  of  Moses's  mother  parting  with  him  be- 
fore leaving  him  in  the  bulrushes  is  a  great  and  noble 
composition. 

Tliis  critic  must  have  a  taste  for  the  neat  and  agreeable, 
that  is  clear.  Mr.  Eddis's  picture  is  nicely  colored ;  the 
figures  in  fine  clean  draperies,  the  sky  a  bright  clean  color ; 
Moses's  mother  is  a  handsome  woman  ;  and  as  she  holds 
her  child  to  her  breast  for  the  last  time,  and  lifts  up  her 
fine  eyes  to  heaven,  the  beholder  may  be  reasonably  moved 
by  a  decent  bourf/eois  compassion ;  a  handsome  woman  part- 
ing from  her  child  is  always  an  object  of  proper  sympathy ; 
but  as  for  the  greatness  of  the  picture  as  a  work  of  art, 
that  is  another  question  of  tastes  again.  This  picture 
seemed  to  me  to  be  essentially  a  prose  composition,  not  a 
poetical  one.  It  tells  you  no  more  than  you  can  see.  It 
has  no  more  wonder  of  poetry  about  it  than  a  police-report 
or  a  newspaper  paragraph,  and  should  be  placed,  as  I  take 
it,  in  the  historic-sentimental  school,  which  is  pretty  much 
followed  in  England  —  nay,  as  close  as  possible  to  the 
namby-pamby  quarter. 

Of  the  latter  sort  there  are  some  illustrious  examples  ; 
and  as  it  is  the  fashion  for  critics  to  award  prizes,  I  would 
for  my  part  cheerfully  award  the  prize  of  a  new  silver  tea- 
spoon to  Mr.  Redgrave,  the  cliampion  of  suffering  female 
innocence,  for  his  "Governess."'  That  picture  is  more 
decidedly  sjmony  than,  perhaps,  any  other  of  this  present 
season:  and  the  subject  seems  to  be  a  favorite  with  the 
artist.  We  have  had  the  '•  Governess  "  one  year  before,  or 
a  variation  of  her  under  the  name  of  the  "  Teacher,"  or 
vice  versa.  The  Teacher's  young  pupils  are  at  play  in  the 
garden,  she  sits  sadly  in  the  schoolroom  ;  there  she  sits, 
poor  dear!  — the  piano  is  open  beside  her,  and  (oh,  harrow- 
ing thought !)  ''  Home,  sweet  home  !  "  is  open  in  the  music- 
book.  She  sits  and  thinks  of  that  dear  place,  with  a  sheet 
of  black-edged  note-paper  in  her  hand.  They  have  brought 
her  her  tea  and  bread  and  butter  on  a  trav.     She  has  drunk 


278      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  tea,  she  has  not  tasted  the  bread  and  butter.  There  is 
pathos  for  you !  there  is  art !  This  is,  indeed,  a  love  for 
lollipops  with  a  vengeance,  a  regular  babyhood  of  taste, 
about  which  a  man  with  a  manly  stomach  may  be  allowed 
to  protest  a  little  peevishly,  and  implore  the  public  to  give 
uj)  such  puling  food. 

There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  Octagon  Room  who,  to  be 
sure,  runs  Mr.  Redgrave  rather  hard,  and  should  have  a 
silver  papspoon  at  any  rate,  if  the  teaspoon  is  irrevocably 
awarded  to  his  rival.  The  Octagon  Room  prize  is  a  picture 
called  the  "  Arrival  of  the  Overland  Mail."  A  lady  is  in 
her  bedchamber,  a  portrait  of  her  husband.  Major  Jones 
(cherished  lord  of  that  bridal  apartment,  with  its  drab- 
curtained  bed),  hangs  on  the  wainscot  in  the  distance,  and 
you  see  his  red  coat  and  mustachios  gleaming  there  between 
the  wardrobe  and  the  washhandstand.  But  where  is  his 
lady  ?  She  is  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  her  face  has 
sunk  into  the  feather-bed ;  her  hands  are  clasped  agoniz- 
ingly together ;  a  most  tremendous  black-edged  letter  has 
just  arrived  by  the  overland  mail.  It  is  all  up  with  Jones. 
Well,  let  us  hope  she  will  marry  again,  and  get  over  her 
grief  for  poor  J. 

Is  there  not  something  naive  and  simple  in  this  down- 
right way  of  exciting  compassion  ?  I  saw  people  looking 
at  this  pair  of  pictures  evidently  with  yearning  hearts. 
The  great  geniuses  who  invented  them  have  not,  you  see, 
toiled  m  vain.  They  can  command  the  sympathies  of  the 
public,  they  have  gained  Art-Union  prizes,  let  us  hope,  as 
well  as  those  humble  imaginary  ones  which  I  have  just 
awarded,  and  yet  my  heart  is  not  naturally  hard,  though  it 
refuses  to  be  moved  by  such  means  as  are  here  employed. 

If  the  simple  statement  of  a  death  is  to  harrow  up  the 
feelings,  or  to  claim  the  tributary  tear,  mo?i  Dieu  !  a  man 
ought  to  howl  every  morning  over  the  newspaper  obituary. 
If  we  are  to  cry  for  every  governess  who  leaves  home, 
what  a  fund  of  pathos  the  Times  advertisements  would 
afford  daily ;  we  might  weep  down  whole  columns  of  close 
type.  I  have  said  before  I  am  growing  more  inclined  to 
the  pathetic  daily,  but  let  us  in  the  name  of  goodness  make 
a  stand  somewhere,  or  the  namby-pamby  of  the  world  will 
become  unendurable ;  and  we  shall  melt  away  in  a  deluge 
of  blubber.  This  drivelling  hysterical  sentimentality  it  is 
surely  the  critic's  duty  to  grin  down,  to  shake  any  man 
roughly  by  the  shoulder  who  seems  dangerously  affected  by 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  279 

it,  and,  not  sparing  his  feelings  in  the  least,  tell  him  he  is 
a  fool  for  his  pains ;  to  have  no  more  respect  for  those  who 
invent  it,  but  expose  their  error  with  all  the  downrightness 
that  is  necessary. 

By  far  the  prettiest  of  the  maudlin  pictures  is  Mr. 
Stone's  ''Premier  Pas."  It  is  that  old,  pretty,  rococo, 
fantastic  Jenny  and  Jessamy  couple,  whose  loves  the 
painter  has  been  chronicling  any  time  these  live  years,  and 
whom  he  has  spied  out  at  various  wells,  porches,  etc.  The 
lad  is  making  love  with  all  his  might,  and  tlie  maiden  is  in 
a  pretty  confusion  —  her  heart  flutters,  and  she  only  seems 
to  spin.  She  drinks  in  the  warm  words  of  the  young  fellow 
with  a  pleasant  conviction  of  the  invincibility  of  her 
charms.  He  appeals  nervously,  and  tugs  at  a  pink  which 
is  growing  up  the  porch-side.  It  is  that  pink,  somehow, 
which  has  saved  the  picture  from  being  decidedly  namby- 
pamby.  There  is  something  new,  fresh,  and  delicate  about 
the  little  incident  of  the  flower.  It  redeems  Jenny,  and 
renders  that  young  prig  Jessamy  bearable.  The  picture  is 
very  nicely  painted,  according  to  the  careful  artist's  wont. 
The  neck  and  hands  of  the  girl  are  especially  pretty.  The 
lad's  face  is  effeminate  and  imbecile,  but  his  velveteen 
breeches  are  painted  with  great  vigor  and  strength. 

This  artist's  picture  of  the  '-Queen  and  Ophelia"  is  in  a 
much  higher  walk  of  art.  There  may  be  doubts  about 
Ophelia.  She  is  too  pretty  to  my  taste.  Her  dress  (espe- 
cially the  black  bands  round  her  arms)  too  elaborately  con- 
spicuous and  coquettish.  The  Queen  is  a  noble  dramatic 
head  and  attitude.  Ophelia  seems  to  be  looking  at  us,  the 
audience,  and  in  a  pretty  attitude  expressl}'  to  captivate 
us.  Tlie  Queen  is  only  thinking  about  the  crazed  girl,  and 
Hamlet,  and  her  own  gloomy  affairs,  and  has  quite  forgotten 
her  own  noble  beauty  and  superb  presence.  The  color  of 
the  picture  struck  me  as  quite  new,  sedate,  but  bright  and 
very  agreeable  ;  the  checkered  light  and  shadow  is  made 
cleverly  to  aid  in  forming  the  composition ;  it  is  very  pic- 
turesque and  good.  It  is  by  far  the  best  of  Mr.  Stone's 
works,  and  in  the  best  line.  Good-by,  Jenny  and  Jessamy ; 
we  hope  never  to  see  you  again  — no  more  rococo  rustics, 
no  more  namby-pamby ;  the  man  who  can  paint  the  Queen 
of  '•'  Hamlet  "  must  forsake  henceforth  such  fiddle-faddle 
company. 

By  the  way,  has  any  Shakspearian  commentator  ever 
remarked  how  fond  the  Queen  really  was  of  her  second 


280      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

husband,  the  excellent  Claudius  ?  How  courteous  and  kind 
the  latter  was  always  towards  her  ?  So  excellent  a  family- 
man  ought  to  be  pardoned  a  few  errors  in  consideration  of 
his  admirable  behavior  to  his  wife.  He  did  go  a  little  far, 
certainly,  but  then  it  was  to  possess  a  jewel  of  a  woman. 

More  pictures  indicating  a  fine  appreciation  of  the  tragic 
sentiment  are  to  be  found  in  the  exhibition.  Among  them 
ma}^  be  mentioned  specially  Mr.  Johnson's  picture  of  "  Lord 
Russell  taking  the  Communion  in  Prison  before  Execution." 
The  story  is  finely  told  here,  the  group  large  and  noble. 
The  figure  of  the  kneeling  wife,  who  looks  at  her  husband 
meekly  engaged  in  the  last  sacred  office,  is  very  good 
indeed;  and  the  little  episode  of  the  jailer,  who  looks  out 
into  the  yard  indifferent,  seems  to  me  to  give  evidence  of  a 
true  dramatic  genius.  In  ''Hamlet,"  how  those  indifferent 
remarks  of  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz,  at  the  end,  bring 
out  the  main  figures  and  deepen  the  surrounding  gloom  of 
the  tragedy. 

In  Mr.  Frith's  admirable  picture  of  the  "  Good  Pastor," 
from  Goldsmith,  there  is  some  sentiment  of  a  very  quiet, 
refined,  Sir  Roger-de-Coverley-like  sort  —  not  too  much  of 
it  —  it  is  indicated  rather  than  expressed.  "Sentiment, 
sir,"  Walker  of  the  "Original"  used  to  say  —  "sentiment, 
sir,  is  like  garlic  in  made  dishes  :  it  should  be  felt  every- 
where and  seen  nowhere." 

Now,  I  won't  say  that  Mr.  Frith's  sentiment  is  like  garlic, 
or  provoke  any  other  savory  comparison  regarding  it ;  but 
say,  in  a  word,  this  is  one  of  the  pictures  I  would  like  to 
have  sent  abroad  to  be  exhibited  at  a  European  congress  of 
painters,  to  show  what  an  English  artist  can  do.  The 
young  painter  seems  to  me  to  have  had  a  thorough  compre- 
hension of  his  subject  and  his  own  abilities.  And  what  a 
rare  quality  is  this,  to  know  what  you  can  do  !  An  ass  will 
go  and  take  the  grand  historic  walk,  while,  with  lowly  wis- 
dom, Mr.  Frith  prefers  the  lowly  path  where  there  are 
plenty  of  flowers  growing,  and  children  prattling  along  the 
walks.  This  is  the  sort  of  picture  that  is  good  to  paint 
nowadays  —  kindly,  beautiful,  inspiring  delicate  sympathies, 
and  awakening  tender  good-humor.  It  is  a  comfort  to  have 
such  a  companion  as  that  in  a  study  to  look  up  at  when 
your  eyes  are  tired  with  work,  and  to  refresh  you  with  its 
gentle  quiet  good-fellowship.  I  can  see  it  now,  as  I  shut 
my  eyes,  displayed  faithfully  on  the  camera  obscura  of  the 
brain  —  the  dear  old  parson  with  his  congregation  of  old 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  281 

and  young  clustered  round  him  ;  the  little  ones  plucking 
him  by  the  gown,  with  wondering  eyes,  half  roguery,  half 
terror  ;  the  smoke  is  curling  up  from  the  cottage  chimneys 
in  a  peaceful  Sabbath  sort  of  way ;  the  three  village  quid- 
nuncs are  chattering  together  at  the  churchyard  stile ; 
there's  a  poor  girl  seated  there  on  a  stone,  who  has  been 
crossed  in  love  evidently,  and  looks  anxiously  to  the  parson 
for  a  little  doubtful  consolation.  That's  the  real  sort  of 
sentiment  —  there's  no  need  of  a  great,  clumsy,  black-edged 
letter  to  placard  her  misery,  as  it  were,  after  ]\Ir.  Red- 
grave's fashion ;  the  sentiment  is  only  the  more  sincere  for 
being  unobtrusive,  and  the  spectator  gives  his  compassion 
the  more  readily  because  the  unfortunate  object  makes  no 
coarse  demands  upon  his  pity. 

The  painting  of  this  picture  is  exceedingly  clever  and 
dexterous.  One  or  two  of  the  foremost  figures  are  painted 
with  the  breadth  and  pearly  delicacy  of  Greuze.  The 
three  village  politicians,  in  the  background,  might  have 
been  touched  by  Teniers,  so  neat,  brisk,  and  sharp  is  the 
execution  of  the  artist's  facile  brush. 

Mr.  Frost  (a  new  name,  I  think,  in  the  catalogue)  has 
given  us  a  picture  of  "  Sabrina,"  which  is  so  pretty  that  I 
heartily  hope  it  has  not  been  purchased  for  the  collection 
from  "  Comus,"  which  adorns  the  Buckingham  Palace 
summer-house.  It  is  worthy  of  a  better  place  and  price 
than  our  royal  patrons  appear  to  be  disposed  to  give  for 
the  works  of  English  artists.  What  victims  have  those 
poor  fellows  been  of  this  awful  patronage !  Great  has  been 
the  commotion  in  the  pictorial  world,  dear  Augusto,  regard- 
ing the  fate  of  those  frescos  which  royalty  was  pleased  to 
order,  which  it  condescended  to  purchase  at  a  price  that  no 
poor  amateur  would  have  the  face  to  offer.  Think  of  the 
greatest  patronage  in  the  world  giving  forty  pounds  for 
pictures  worth  four  hundred  —  condescending  to  buy  works 
from  humble  men  who  could  not  refuse,  and  paying  for 
them  below  their  value !  Think  of  august  powers  and 
principalities  ordering  the  works  of  such  a  great  man  as 
Etty  to  be  hacked  out  of  the  palace  wall  —  that  was  a  slap 
in  the  face  to  every  artist  in  England ;  and  I  can  agree 
with  the  conclusion  come  to  by  an  indignant  poet  of 
Flinches  band,  who  says,  for  his  part :  — 

"  I  will  not  toil  for  Queen  and  crown, 
If  princely  patrons  spurn  me  down; 
I  will  not  ask  for  royal  job  — 
Let  my  Maecenas  be  a  snob  ! " 


282     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE   AND  ART. 

This  is,  however,  a  delicate,  an  awful  subject,  over  which 
lo^'al  subjects  like  you  and  I  had  best  mourn  in  silence  ; 
but  the  fate  of  Etty's  noble  picture  of  last  year  made  me 
tremble  lest  Frost  should  be  similarly  nipped  :  and  I  hope 
more  genuine  patronage  for  this  promising  young  painter. 
His  picture  is  like  a  mixture  of  a  very  good  Hilton  and 
Howard  raised  to  a  state  of  genius.  There  is  sameness  in 
the  heads,  but  great  grace  and  beauty  —  a  fine  sweeping 
movement  in  the  composition  of  the  beautiful  fairy  figures, 
undulating  gracefully  through  the  stream,  while  the  lilies 
lie  gracefully  overhead.  There  is  another  submarine  pic- 
ture of  "Nymphs  cajoling  Young  Hylas,"  which  contains 
great  deal  of  very  clever  imitations  of  Boucher. 

That  youthful  Goodall,  whose  early  attempts  promised 
so  much,  is  not  quite  realizing  those  promises,  I  think,  and 
is  cajoled,  like  Hylas  before  mentioned,  by  dangerous 
beauty.  His  "Connemara  Girls  going  to  Market"  are  a 
vast  deal  too  clean  and  pretfcy  for  such  females.  They 
laugh  and  simper  in  much  too  genteel  a  manner ;  they  are 
washing  such  pretty  white  feet  as  I  don't  think  are  common 
about  Leenane  or  Ballynahinch,  and  would  be  better  at  ease 
in  white  satin  slippers  than  trudging  up  Croaghpatrick. 
There  is  a  luxury  of  geographical  knowledge  for  you  !  I 
have  not  done  with  it  3'et.  Stop  till  we  come  to  Eoberts's 
"View  of  Jerusalem,"  and  Muller's  pictures  of  "  Khodes," 
and  "Xanthus,"  and  "Telmessus."  This  artist's  sketches 
are  excellent ;  like  nature,  and  like  Decamps,  that  best  of 
painters  of  Oriental  life  and  colors.  In  the  pictures  the 
artist  forgets  the  brilliancy  of  color  Avhich  is  so  conspicu- 
ous in  his  sketches,  and  "Telmessus"  looks  as  gray  and 
heavy  as  Dover  in  March. 

Mr.  Pickersgill  (not  the  Academician,  by  any  means) 
deserves  great  praise  for  two  very  poetical  pieces;  one 
from  Spenser,  I  think  (Sir  Botibol,  let  us  say,  as  before, 
with  somebody  in  some  hag's  cave)  ;  another  called  the 
"  Four  Ages,"  which  has  still  better  grace  and  sentiment. 
This  artist,  too,  is  evidently  one  of  the  disciples  of  Hilton; 
and  another,  who  has  also,  as  it  seems  to  me,  studied  with 
advantage  that  graceful  and  agreeable  English  painter, 
Mr.  Hook,  whose  "  Song  of  the  Olden  Time  "  is  hung  up 
in  the  Octagon  Closet,  and  makes  a  sunshine  in  that  exceed- 
ingly shady  place.  The  female  figure  is  faulty,  but  charm- 
ing (many  charmers  have  their  little  faults,  it  is  said) ;  the 
old  bard  who  is  singing  the  song  of  the  olden  time^  a  most 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  283 

venerable,  agreeable,  and  handsome  old  minstrel.  In  Alnas- 
char-like  moods  a  man  fancies  himself  a  noble  patron,  and 
munificent  re  warder  of  artists  ;  in  which  case  I  should  like 
to  possess  myself  of  the  works  of  these  two  young  men, 

and  give  them  four  times  as  large  a  price  as  the gave 

for  pictures  five  times  as  good  as  theirs. 

I  suppose  Mr.  Eastlake's  composition  from  "  Comus  "  is 
the  contribution  in  which  he  has  been  mulcted,  in  company 
with  his  celebrated  brother  artists,  for  the  famous  Buck- 
ingham Palace  pavilion.  Working  for  nothing  is  very 
well :  but  to  work  for  a  good,  honest,  remunerating  price 
is,  perhaps,  the  best  way,  after  all.  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  the  artist's  courage  has  failed  him  over  his  '•  Comus  " 
picture.  Time  and  pains  he  has  given,  that  is  quite  evi- 
dent. The  picture  is  prodigiously  labored,  and  hatched, 
and  tickled  up  with  a  Chinese  minuteness ;  but  there  is  a 
woful  lack  of  vis  in  the  work.  That  poor  laborer  has  kept 
his  promise,  has  worked  the  given  number  of  hours ;  but 
he  has  had  no  food  all  the  while,  and  has  executed  his  job 
in  a  somewhat  faint  manner.  This  face  of  the  lady  is  pure 
and  beautiful ;  but  we  have  seen  it  at  any  time  these  ten 
years,  with  its  red  transparent  shadows,  its  mouth  in  which 
butter  wouldn't  melt,  and  its  beautiful  brown-madder  hair. 
She  is  getting  rather  tedious,  that  sweet,  irreproachable 
creature,  that  is  the  fact.  She  may  be  an  angel ;  but  sky- 
blue,  my  wicked  senses  tell  me,  is  a  feeble  sort  of  drink, 
and  men  require  stronger  nourishment. 

Mr.  Eastlake's  picture  is  a  prim,  mystic,  cruciform  com- 
position. The  lady  languishes  in  the  middle ;  an  angel  is 
consoling  her,  and  embracing  her  witli  an  arm  out  of  joint; 
little  rows  of  cherubs  stand  on  each  side  the  angels  and  the 
lady,  — wonderful  little  children,  with  blue  or  brown  beady 
eyes,  and  sweet  little  flossy,  curly  hair,  and  no  muscles  or 
bones,  as  becomes  such  supernatural  beings,  no  doubt.  I 
have  seen  similar  little  darlings  in  the  toy-shops  in  the 
Lowther  Arcade  for  a  shilling,  with  just  such  pink  cheeks 
and  round  eyes,  their  bodies  formed  out  of  cotton  w^ool, 
and  their  extremities  veiled  in  silver  paper.  Well ;  it  is  as 
well,  perhaps,  that  Etty's  jovial  nymphs  should  not  come 
into  such  a  company.  Good  Lord !  how  they  would  aston- 
ish the  weak  nerves  of  ^Ir.  Eastlake's  jorec/ewse  young  lady  ! 

Quite  unabashed  by  the  squeamishness  exhibited  in  the 
highest  quarter  (as  the  newspapers  call  it),  Mr.  Etty  goes 
on  rejoicing  in  his  old  fashion.     Perhaps  he  is  worse  than 


284     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

ever  this  year,  and  despises  nee  dulces  amoves  nee  choreas, 
because  certain  great  personages  are  offended.  Perhaps, 
this  year,  his  ladies  and  Cupids  are  a  little  hasardes  ;  his 
Venuses  expand  more  than  ever  in  the  line  of  Hottentot 
beauty ;  his  drawing  and  coloring  are  still  more  audacious 
than  they  were ;  patches  of  red  shine  on  the  cheeks  of  his 
blowzy  nymphs ;  his  idea  of  form  goes  to  the  verge  of 
monstrosity.  If  you  look  at  the  pictures  closely  (and,  con- 
sidering all  things,  it  requires  some  courage  to  do  so),  the 
forms  disappear;  feet  and  hands  are  scumbled  away,  and 
distances  appear  to  be  dabs  and  blotches  of  lake  and  brown 
and  ultramarine.  It  must  be  confessed  that  some  of  these 
pictures  would  7iot  be  suitable  to  hang  up  everywhere  —  in 
a  young  ladies'  school,  for  instance.  But  how  rich  and 
superb  is  the  color !  Did  Titian  paint  better,  or  Eubens  as 
well  ?  There  is  a  nymph  and  child  in  the  left  corner  of 
the  Great  Koom,  sitting,  without  the  slightest  fear  of  catch- 
ing cold,  in  a  sort  of  moonlight,  of  which  the  color  appears 
to  me  to  be  as  rich  and  wonderful  as  Titian's  best —  "Bac- 
chus and  Ariadne,"  for  instance  —  and  better  than  Eubens's. 
There  is  a  little  head  of  a  boy  in  a  blue  dress  (for  once  in 
a  way)  which  kills  every  picture  in  the  room,  out-stares 
all  the  red-coated  generals,  out-blazes  Mrs.  Thwaites  and 
her  diamonds  (who  has  the  place  of  honor)  ;  and  has  that 
unmistakable,  inestimable,  indescribable  mark  of  the  Great 
painter  about  it,  which  makes  the  soul  of  a  man  kindle  up 
as  he  sees  it,  and  owns  that  there  is  Genius.  How  delight- 
ful it  is  to  feel  that  shock,  and  how  few  are  the  works  of 
art  that  can  give  it ! 

The  author  of  that  sibylline  book  of  mystic  rhymes,  the 
unrevealed  bard  of  the  '-'  Fallacies  of  Hope,"  is  as  great  as 
usual,  vibrating  between  the  absurd  and  the  sublime,  until 
the  eye  grows  dazzled  in  watching  him,  and  can't  really  tell 
in  what  region  he  is.  If  Etty's  color  is  wild  and  myste- 
rious, looking  here  as  if  smeared  with  the  finger,  and  there 
with  the  palette-knife,  what  can  be  said  about  Turner? 
Go  up  and  look  at  one  of  his  pictures,  and  you  laugh  at 
yourself  and  at  him,  and  at  the  picture,  and  that  wonderful 
amateur  who  is  invariably  found  to  give  a  thousand  pounds 
for  it,  or  more  —  some  sum  wild,  prodigious,  unheard-of, 
monstrous,  like  the  picture  itself.  All  about  the  author  of 
the  "Fallacies  of  Hope"  is  a  mysterious  extravaganza: 
price,  poem,  purchaser,  picture.  Look  at  the  latter  for  a 
little  time,  and  it  begins  to  affect  you  too,  —  to  mesmerize 


I 


PICTURE    GOSSIP.  285 

you.  It  is  revealed  to  you ;  and  as  it  is  said  in  the  East 
the  magicians  make  children  see  the  sultans,  carpet-bearers, 
tents,  etc.,  in  a  spot  of  ink  in  their  hands,  so  the  magician 
Joseph  Mallord  makes  you  see  what  he  likes  on  a  board 
that  to  the  first  view  is  merely  dabbed  over  with  occasional 
streaks  of  yellow,  and  flicked  here  and  there  with  vermilion. 
The  vermilion  blotches  become  little  boats  full  of  harpoon- 
ers  and  gondolas  with  a  deal  of  music  going  on  on  board. 
That  is  not  a  smear  of  purple  you  see  yonder,  but  a  beauti- 
ful whale,  whose  tail  has  just  slapped  a  half-dozen  whale- 
boats  into  perdition ;  and  as  for  what  you  fancied  to  be  a 
few  zig-zag  lines  spattered  on  the  canvas  at  haphazard, 
look !  they  turn  out  to  be  a  ship  with  all  her  sails  ;  the 
captain  and  his  crew  are  clearly  visible  in  the  ship's  bows : 
and  you  may  distinctly  see  the  oil-casks  getting  ready  un- 
der the  superintendence  of  that  man  with  the  red  whiskers 
and  the  cast  in  his  eye ;  who  is,  of  course,  the  chief  mate. 
In  a  word,  I  say  that  Turner  is  a  great  and  awful  mystery 
to  me.  1  don't  like  to  (contemplate  him  too  much,  lest  I 
should  actuall}'  begin  to  believe  in  his  poetry  as  well  as  his 
paintings,  and  fancy  the  ''  Fallacies  of  Hope  "  to  be  one  of 
the  finest  poems  in  the  world. 

Now  Stanfield  has  no  mysticism  or  oracularity  about 
him.  You  can  see  what  he  means  at  once.  His  style  is  as 
simple  and  manly  as  a  seaman's  song.  One  of  the  most 
dexterous,  he  is  also  one  of  the  most  careful  of  painters. 
Every  year  his  works  are  more  elaborated,  and  you  are  sur- 
prised to  find  a  progress  in  an  artist  who  had  seemed  to 
reach  his  acme  before.  His  battle  of  frigates  this  year  is 
a  brilliant  sparkling  pageant  of  naval  war;  his  great  pic- 
ture of  the  '^  Mole  of  Ancona,"  fresh,  healthy,  and  bright  as 
breeze  and  sea  can  make  it.  There  are  better  pieces  still 
by  this  painter,  to  my  mind ;  one  in  the  first  room,  espe- 
cially, —  a  Dutch  landscape,  with  a  warm  sunny  tone  upon 
it,  worthy  of  Cuyp  and  Callcott.  Who  is  G.  Stanfield,  an 
exhibiter,  and  evidently  a  pupil  of  the  Koyal  Academician  ? 
Can  it  be  a  son  of  that  gent?  If  so,  the  father  has  a 
worthy  heir  to  his  name  and  honors.  G.  Stanfield's  Dutch 
picture  may  be  looked  at  by  the  side  of  his  father's. 

Eoberts  has  also  distinguished  himself  and  advanced  in 
skill,  great  as  his  care  had  been  and  powerful  his  effects 
before.  '-The  Kuins  of  Karnac  "  is  the  most  poetical  of 
this  painter's  works,  I  think.  A  vast  and  awful  scene  of 
gloomy  Egyptian  ruin  !  the  sun  lights  up  tremendous  lines 


286     CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND    ART. 

of  edifices,  which  were  only  parts  formerly  of  the  enormous 
city  of  the  hundred  gates  ;  long  lines  of  camels  come  over 
the  reddening  desert,  and  camps  are  set  by  the  side  of  the 
glowing  pools.  This  is  a  good  picture  to  gaze  at,  and  to 
fill  your  eyes  and  thoughts  with  grandiose  ideas  of  Eastern 
life. 

This  gentleman's  large  picture  of  "  Jerusalem  "  did  not 
satisfy  me  so  much.  It  is  3^et  very  faithful ;  an3^body  who 
has  visited  this  place  must  see  the  careful  fidelity  with 
which  the  artist  has  mapped  the  rocks  and  valleys,  and 
laid  down  the  lines  of  the  buildings ;  but  the  picture  has, 
to  my  eyes,  too  green  and  trim  a  look ;  the  mosques  and 
houses  look  fresh  and  new,  instead  of  being  mouldering, 
old,  sun-baked  edifices  of  glaring  stone  rising  amidst 
wretchedness  and  ruin.  There  is  not,  to  my  mind,  that  sad 
fatal  aspect,  which  the  city  presents  from  whatever  quarter 
you  view  it,  and  which  haunts  a  man  who  has  seen  it  ever 
after  with  an  impression  of  terror.  Perhaps  in  the  spring 
for  a  little  while,  at  which  season  the  sketch  for  this  pic- 
ture was  painted,  the  country  round  about  may  look  very 
cheerful.  When  we  saw  it  in  autumn,  the  mountains 
that  stand  round  about  Jerusalem  Avere  not  green,  but 
ghastly  piles  of  hot  rock,  patched  here  and  there  with  yel- 
low weedy  herbage.  A  cactus  or  a  few  bleak  olive-trees 
made  up  the  vegetation  of  the  wretched  gloomy  landscape ; 
whereas  in  Mr.  Eoberts's  picture  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat 
looks  like  a  glade  in  a  park,  and  the  hills,  up  to  the  gates, 
are  carpeted  with  verdure. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  Jerusalem,  here  may  be  men- 
tioned with  praise  Mr.  Hart's  picture  of  a  Jewish  ceremony, 
with  a  Hebrew  name  I  have  forgotten.  This  piece  is 
exceedingly  bright  and  pleasing  in  color,  odd  and  novel  as 
a  representation  of  manners  and  costume,  a  striking  and 
agreeable  picture.  I  don't  think  as  much  can  be  said  for 
the  same  artist's  "  Sir  Thomas  More  going  to  Execution." 
Miss  More  is  crying  on  papa's  neck,  pa  looks  up  to  heaven, 
halberdiers  look  fierce,  etc. :  all  the  regular  adjuncts  and 
property  of  pictorial  tragedy  are  here  brought  into  play. 
But  nobody  cares,  that  is  the  fact;  and  one  fancies  the 
designer  himself  cannot  have  cared  much  for  the  orthodox 
historical  group  whose  misfortunes  he  was  depicting. 

These  pictures  are  like  boys'  hexameters  at  school. 
Every  lad  of  decent  parts  in  the  sixth  form  has  a  knack  of 
turning  out  great  quantities  of  respectable  verse,  without 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  287 

blunders,  and  with  scarce  any  mental  labor;  but  these 
verses  are  not  the  least  like  poetry,  any  more  than  the 
great  Academical  paintings  of  the  artists  are  like  great 
painting.  You  want  something  more  than  a  composition, 
and  a  set  of  costumes  and  figures  decently  posed  and 
studied.  If  these  were  all,  for  instance,  Mr.  Charles  Land- 
seer's  picture  of  "Charles  I.  before  the  Battle  of  Edge 
Hill "  would  be  a  good  work  of  art.  Charles  stands  at  a  tree 
before  the  inn-door,  officers  are  round  about,  the  little  princes 
are  playing  with  a  little  dog,  as  becomes  their  youth  and 
innocence,  rows  of  soldiers  appear  in  red  coats,  nobody 
seems  to  have  anything  particular  to  do,  except  the  royal 
martyr,  who  is  looking  at  a  bone  of  ham  that  a  girl  out  of 
the  inn  has  hold  of. 

Now  this  is  all  very  well,  but  you  want  something  more 
than  this  in  an  historic  picture,  which  should  have  its  parts, 
characters,  varieties,  and  climax  like  a  drama.  You  don't 
want  the  Deus  interslt  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  look  at 
a  knuckle  of  ham;  and  here  is  a  piece  well  composed  and 
(bating  a  little  want  of  life  in  the  figures)  well  drawn, 
brightly  and  jjleasantly  painted,  as  all  this  artist's  works 
are,  all  the  parts  and  accessories  studied  and  executed  with 
care  and  skill,  and  yet  meaning  nothing  —  the  part  of 
Hamlet  omitted.  The  King  in  this  attitude  (with  the 
baton  in  his  hand,  simpering  at  the  bacon  aforesaid)  has  no 
more  of  the  heroic  in  him  than  the  pork  he  contemplates, 
and  he  deserves  to  lose  every  battle  he  fights.  I  prefer 
the  artist's  other  still-life  pictures  to  this.  He  has  a  couple 
more,  professedly  so  called,  very  cleverly  executed  and 
capital  cabinet  pieces. 

Strange  to  say,  I  have  not  one  picture  to  remark  upon 
taken  from  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  ]\Ir.  Ward  has  a 
very  good  Hogarthian  work,  with  some  little  extravagance 
and  caricature,  representing  Johnson  waiting  in  Lord 
Chesterfield's  antechamber,  among  a  crowd  of  hangers-on 
and  petitioners,  who  are  sulky,  or  yawning,  or  neglected, 
while  a  pretty  Italian  singer  comes  out,  having  evidently 
had  a  very  satisfactory  interview  with  his  lordship,  and 
who  (to  lose  no  time)  is  arranging  another  rendezvous  with 
another  admirer.  This  story  is  very  well,  coarsely,  and 
humorously  told,  and  is  as  racy  as  a  chapter  out  of  Smollett. 
There  is  a  yawning  chaplain,  whose  head  is  full  of  humor ; 
and  a  pathetic  episode  of  a  widow  and  pretty  child,  in 
which  the  artist  has  not  succeeded  so  well. 


288      CRITICISMS  IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

There  is  great  delicacy  and  beauty  in  Mr.  Herbert's 
picture  of  ''Pope  Gregory  teaching  Children  to  Sing." 
His  Holiness  lies  on  his  sofa  languidly  beating  time  over 
his  book.  He  does  not  look  strong  enough  to  use  the 
scourge  in  his  hands,  and  with  which  the  painter  says  he 
used  to  correct  his  little  choristers.  Two  ghostly  aides-de- 
camp in  the  shape  of  worn,  handsome,  shaven,  ascetic 
friars,  stand  behind  the  pontiff  demurely ;  and  all  the 
choristers  are  in  full  song,  with  their  mouths  as  wide  open 
as  a  nest  of  young  birds  when  the  mother  comes.  The 
painter  seems  to  me  to  have  acquired  the  true  spirit  of  the 
middle-age  devotion.  All  his  works  have  unction ;  and  the 
prim,  subdued,  ascetic  face,  which  forms  the  charm  and 
mystery  of  the  missal-illuminations,  and  which  has  operated 
to  convert  some  imaginative  minds  from  the  new  to  the  old 
faith. 

And,  by  way  of  a  wonder,  behold  a  devotional  picture 
from  Mr.  Edwin  Landseer,  "A  Shepherd  praying  at  a 
Cross  in  the  Fields."  I  suppose  the  Sabbath  church-bells 
are  ringing  from  the  city  far  away  in  the  plain.  Do  you 
remember  the  beautiful  lines  of  Uhland  ?  — 

"  Es  ist  der  Tag  des  Herrn: 
Ich  bin  allein  auf  weitern  Flur, 
Noch  eine  Morgenglocke  nur, 
Und  Stille  nah  und  fern. 

Anbetend  knie  ich  hier. 
O  siisses  Graun,  geheimes  Wehn, 
Als  knieeten  Viele  ungesehn 
Und  beteten  mit  mir." 

Here  is  a  noble  and  touching  pictorial  illustration  of 
them  —  of  Sabbath  repose  and  recueillement  —  an  almost 
endless  flock  of  sheep  lies  around  the  pious  pastor :  the  sun 
shines  peacefully  over  the  vast  fertile  plain  ;  blue  moun- 
tains keep  watch  in  the  distance;  and  the  sky  above  is 
serenely  clear.  I  think  this  is  the  highest  flight  of  poetry 
the  painter  has  dared  to  take  yet.  The  numbers  and 
variety  of  attitude  and  expression  in  that  flock  of  sheep 
quite  startle  the  spectator  as  he  examines  them.  The 
picture  is  a  wonder  of  skill. 

How  richly  the  good  pictures  cluster  at  this  end  of  the 
room !  There  is  a  little  Mulready,  of  which  the  color 
blazes  out  like  sapphires  and  rubies ;  a  pair  of  Leslies  — 
one  called  the  "Heiress"  —  one  a  scene  from  Moliere  — 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  289 

both  delightful: — these  are  flanked  by  the  magnificent 
nymphs  of  Etty,  before  mentioned.  What  school  of  art  in 
Europe,  or  what  age,  can  show  better  painters  than  these 
in  their  various  lines  ?  The  young  men  do  well,  but  the 
eldest  do  best  still.  Xo  wonder  the  English  pictures  are 
fetching  their  thousands  of  guineas  at  the  sales.  They 
deserve  these  great  prices  as  well  as  the  best  works  of  the 
Hollanders. 

I  am  sure  that  three  such  pictures  as  ^Ir.  Webster's 
"Dame's  School"  ought  to  entitle  the  proprietor  to  pay 
the  income  tax.  There  is  a  little  caricature  in  some  of  the 
children-s  faces ;  but  the  schoolmistress  is  a  perfect  figure, 
most  admirably  natural,  humorous,  and  sentimental.  The 
picture  is  beautifully  painted,  full  of  air,  of  delightful 
harmony  and  tone. 

There  are  works  by  Creswick  that  can  hardly  be  praised 
too  much.  One  particularly,  called  "A  Place  to  be  Re- 
membered," which  no  lover  of  pictures  can  see  and  forget. 
Danby's  great  "  Evening  Scene  "  has  portions  which  are  not 
surpassed  by  Cuyp  or  Claude ;  and  a  noble  landscape  of 
Dee's,  among  several  others  —  a  height  with  some  trees 
and  a  great  expanse  of  country  beneath. 

From  the  fine  pictures  you  come  to  the  class  which  are 
very  nearly  being  fine  pictures.  In  this  I  would  enumerate 
a  landscape  or  two  by  Collins;  Mr.  Leigh's  ''Polyphemus," 
of  which  the  landscape  part  is  very  good,  and  only  the 
figure  questionable ;  and  let  us  say  Mr.  Elmore's  "  Origin 
of  the  Guelf  and  Ghibelline  Factions,"  which  contains 
excellent  passages,  and  admirable  drawing  and  dexterity, 
but  fails  to  strike  as  a  whole  somehow.  There  is  not 
sufficient  purpose  in  it,  or  the  story  is  not  enough  to  inter- 
est, or,  though  the  parts  are  excellent,  the  whole  is  some- 
where deficient. 

There  is  very  little  coined}'  m  the  exhibition,  most  of 
the  young  artists  tending  to  the  sentimental  rather  than 
the  ludicrous.  Leslie's  scene  from  Moliere  is  the  best 
comedy.  Collins's  "  Fetching  the  Doctor  "  is  also  delightful 
fun.  The  greatest  farce,  however,  is  Chalon's  picture  with 
an  Italian  title,  "  B.  Virgine  col,"  etc.  Impudence  never 
went  beyond  this.  The  infant's  hair  has  been  curled  into 
ringlets,  the  mother  sits  on  her  chair  with  painted  cheeks 
and  a  Haymarket  leer.  The  picture  might  serve  for  the 
oratory  of  an  opera-girl. 

Among  the  portraits,  Knight's  and  Watson  Gordon's  are 


290      CRITICISMS   IN  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 

the  best.  A  "  ^Ir.  Pigeon "  by  the  former  hangs  in  the 
place  of  honor  usually  devoted  to  our  gracious  Prince,  and 
is  a  fine  rich  state  picture.  Even  better  are  there  by  Mr. 
Watson  Gordon :  one  representing  a  gentleman  in  black 
silk  stockings,  whose  name  has  escaped  the  memory  of 
your  humble  servant ;  another,  a  fine  portrait  of  Mr.  De 
Quincey,  the  opium-eater.  Mr.  Lawrence's  heads,  solemn 
and  solidly  painted,  look  out  at  you  from  their  frames, 
though  they  be  ever  so  high  placed,  and  push  out  of  sight 
the  works  of  more  flimsy  but  successful  practitioners.  A 
portrait  of  great  power  and  richness  of  color  is  that  of  Mr. 
Lopez  by  Linn  ell.  Mr.  Grant  is  a  favorite ;  but  a  very 
unsound  painter  to  my  mind,  painting  like  a  brilliant  and 
graceful  amateur  rather  than  a  serious  artist.  But  there  is 
a  quiet  refinement  and  beauty  about  his  female  heads,  which 
no  other  painter  can  perhaps  give,  and  charms  in  spite  of 
many  errors.  Is  it  Count  d'Orsay,  or  is  it  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
that  the  former  has  painted?  Two  peas  are  not  more 
alike  than  these  two  illustrious  characters. 

In  the  miniature-room,  Mr.  Eichmond's  drawings  are  of 
so  grand  and  noble  a  character,  that  they  fill  the  eye  as 
much  as  full-length  canvases.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than 
Mrs.  Fry  and  the  gray-haired  lady  in  black  velvet.  There 
is  a  certain  severe,  respectable,  Exeter-Hall  look  about 
most  of  this  artist's  pictures,  that  the  observer  may  com- 
pare with  the  Catholic  physiognomies  of  Mr.  Herbert :  see 
his  picture  of  Mr.  Pugin,  for  instance ;  it  tells  of  chants 
and  cathedrals,  as  Mr.  Eichmond's  work  somehow  does  of 
Clapham  Common  and  the  May  Meetings.  The  genius  of 
Mayfair  fires  the  bosom  of  Chalon  —  the  tea-party,  the 
quadrille,  the  hairdresser,  the  tailor,  and  the  flunky.  All 
Eoss's  miniatures  sparkle  with  his  wonderful  and  minute 
skill;  Carrick's -are  excellent;  Thorburn's  almost  take  the 
rank  of  historical  pictures.  In  his  picture  of  two  sisters, 
one  has  almost  the  most  beautiful  head  in  the  world ;  and 
his  picture  of  Prince  Albert,  clothed  in  red  and  leaning  on 
a  turquoise  sabre,  has  ennobled  that  fine  head,  and  given 
his  Eoyal  Highness's  pale  features  an  air  of  sunburnt  and 
warlike  vigor.  Miss  Corbaux,  too,  has  painted  one  of  the 
loveliest  heads  ever  seen.  Perhaps  this  is  the  pleasantest 
room  of  the  whole,  for  you  are  sure  to  meet  your  friends 
here ;  kind  faces  smile  at  you  from  the  ivory ;  and  features 
of  fair  creatures,  oh  !  how 


PICTURE   GOSSIP.  291 

[Here  the  eccentric  author  breaks  into  a  rhapsody  of 
thirteen  pages  regarding  No.  2576,  ]Mrs.  Major  Blogg,  who 
was  formerly  Miss  Poddy  of  Cheltenham,  whom  it  appears 
that  Michael  Angelo  knew  and  admired.  The  feelings  of 
the  Poddy  family  might  be  hurt,  and  the  jealousy  of  Major 
Blogg  aroused,  were  we  to  print  Titmarsh's  rapturous 
description  of  that  lady ;  nor,  indeed,  can  we  give  him  any 
further  space,  seeing  that  this  is  nearly  the  last  page  of 
the  ^lagazine.  He  concludes  by  a  withering  denunciation 
of  most  of  the  statues  in  the  vault  where  they  are  buried ; 
praising,  however,  the  children,  Paul  and  Virginia,  the 
head  of  Baily's  nymph,  and  M-Dowall's  boy.  He  remarks 
the  honest  character  of  the  English  countenance  as  ex- 
hibited in  the  busts,  and  contrasts  it  with  Louis  Philippe's 
head  by  Jones,  on  whom,  both  as  a  sculptor  and  a  singer, 
he  bestows  great  praise.  He  indignantly  remonstrates 
with  the  committee  for  putting  by  far  the  finest  female  bust 
in  the  room.  No.  1434,  by  Powers  of  Florence,  in  a  situation 
where  it  cannot  be  seen;  and,  quitting  the  gallery  finally, 
says  he  must  go  before  he  leaves  town  and  give  one  more 
look  at  Hunt's  ''Boy  at  Prayers,"  in  the  Water-color 
Exhibition,  which  he  pronounces  to  be  the  finest  serious 
work  of  the  year.] 


FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS. 


PEOFESSIONS  BY   GEOEGE  FITZ-BOODLE. 

THIRD    PROFESSION. 

[Frase7'^s  Magazine,  July,  1842.] 

The  last  profession  is  one  in  all  respects  inferior  to  the 
two  preceding ;  is  merely  temporary,  whereas  they  are  for 
life ;  but  has  this  advantage,  that  it  may  be  exercised  by 
the  vulgarest  man  in  Europe,  and  requires  not  the  least 
previous  experience  or  education. 

It  is  better,  unluckily,  for  a  foreigner  than  an  English- 
man ;  but  the  latter  may  easily  adopt  it,  if  he  have  any 
American  relations,  or  if  he  choose  to  call  himself  a  citizen 
of  the  great  republic.  In  fact,  this  profession  simply  con- 
sists in  being  a  foreigner. 

You  may  be  ever  so  illiterate  and  low-bred,  and  you  are 
all  the  better  for  the  profession.  Your  worst  social  quali- 
ties will  stand  you  instead.  You  should,  to  practise  prop- 
erly, be  curious,  talkative,  abominably  impudent,  and 
forward.  You  should  never  be  rebuffed  because  people 
turn  their  backs  on  you,  but  should  attack  them  again  and 
again ;  and  depend  upon  it  that  if  you  are  determined  to 
know  a  man,  he  will  end,  out  of  mere  weariness,  by  admit- 
ting you  to  his  acquaintance. 

Say  that  you  have  met  a  person  once  at  a  cafe,  or  tavern, 
and  you  do  not  know  one  single  Englishman  in  the  world 
(except  the  tradesmen  in  the  nameless  quarter  where  you 
Avere  born)  but  this,  some  young  fellow  from  college  prob- 
ably, who  is  spending  his  vacation  abroad.  Well,  you 
know  this  man,  and  it  is  enough.  Ask  him  at  once  for 
letters  of  introduction ;  say  that  you  are  a  young  American 
(for  I  presume  the  reader  is  an  Englishman,  and  this  char- 
acter he  can  therefore  assume  more  readily  than  any  other) 


THIRD  PROFESSION.  293 

wishing  to  travel,  and  ask  him  for  letters  to  his  family  in 
England.  He  hums  and  ha's,  and  says  he  will  send  them. 
Nonsense  !  call  the  waiter  to  bring  pens,  ink,  and  paper ; 
lay  them  laughingly  before  your  friend ;  say  that  now  is 
the  best  time,  and  almost  certainly  you  will  have  the  let- 
ters. He  can't  abuse  you  in  the  notes,  because  you  are 
looking  over  his  shoulder.  The  two  or  three  first  men 
upon  whom  you  make  the  attempt  may  say  that  you  may  go 
to  the  deuce,  and  threaten  to  kick  you  out  of  the  room ;  — 
but  'tis  against  the  chances,  this  sort  of  ferocit3\  Men  are 
rather  soft  than  spirited,  and  if  they  be  spirited  you  have 
only  to  wait  until  3-ou  find  a  soft  one. 

It  will  be  as  well,  perhaps,  while  making  the  demand 
upon  your  friend  in  the  cafe,  to  produce  a  series  of  letters 

directed  to  the  Marquess  of  L e,  the  Duke  of  D , 

Mr.  R the  poet,  ^Ir.  C.  K ,  the  eminent  actor  now 

retired,  and  other  distinguished  literary  or  fashionable 
persons,  saying  that  your  friends  in  America  have  already 
supplied  you  with  these,  but  that  you  want  chiefly  intro- 
ductions to  private  families,  to  see  ''the  homes  of  Eng- 
land;" and,  as  Englishmen  respect  lords  (see  the  remarks 
in  Profession  11.)  most  likely  your  young  cafe  acquaintance 
will  be  dazzled  by  the  sight  of  these  addresses,  and  will 
give  you  letters  the  more  willingh^  saying  to  himself, 
"Who  knows,  egad,  but  that  this  American  may  get  my 

sisters  to  L House  ?  "     One  way  or  the  other,  you  will 

be  sure  to  end  by  having  a  letter — a  real  letter;  and  as 
for  those  you  have  written,  why,  upon  my  honor,  I  do  not 
think  that  you  can  do  better  than  present  some  of  them  on 
the  chance  ;  for  the  duke  and  the  marquess  receive  so  many 
people  at  tlioir  houses,  that  they  cannot  be  expected  to  re- 
member all  their  names.     Write,  then,  bravely  at  once,  — 

To  HIS  Grace  the  Duke  of  Dorsetshire,  K.  G.,  Loxdox, 

Twenty-one  Street,  Boston,  May,  1842. 

My  dear  Duke,  —  In  the  friendly  hospitality  which  you  exercised 
towards  me  on  my  last  visit  to  London.  I  am  fain  to  hope  that  you 
looked  somewhat  "to  my  character  as  an  individual,  as  well  as  to  ray 
quality  as  a  citizen  of  the  greatest  country  of  the  world :  I,  for  my  part, 
have  always  retained  the  warmest  regard  for  you,  and  shall  be  happy 
to  see  vou'any  time  you  come  our  way. 

Assuming,  I  am  sure  justifiably,  that  your  repeated  assurances  of  re- 
gard were  sincere  (for  I  do  not  consider  you  as  false,  as  I  found  the 
rest  of  the  English  nobility),  I  send,  to  be  under  j-our  special  protec- 
tion whilst  in  London,  my' dear  young  friend,  Xahum  Hodge,  distin- 
guished  among  us  as  a  patriot  and  a  poet;   in   the   first  of   which 


294  FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS. 

capacities  be  burned  several  farmbouses  in  Canada  last  fall,  and,  in 
tbe  latter,  bas  produced  bis  celebrated  work,  "  Tbe  Bello wings  of  tbe 
Buffalo,"  printed  at  Buffalo,  New  York,  by  Messrs.  Bowie  and  Cutler, 
and  wbicb  are  far  superior  to  any  poems  ever  produced  in  tbe  old 
country.  Belying  upon  our  acquaintance,  I  bave  put  down  your  name, 
my  dear  Duke,  as  a  subscriber  for  six  copies,  and  will  beg  you  to  band 
over  to  my  young  friend,  Nabum,  twelve  dollars  —  tbe  price. 

lie  is  a  modest,  retiring  young  man,  as  most  of  our  young  republi- 
cans are,  and  will  want  to  be  urged  and  pusbed  forward  into  good 
society.  Tbls,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  sure  you  will  do  for  me.  Ask 
liim  as  often  as  you  can  to  dinner,  and  present  liim  at  tbe  best  bouses 
you  can  in  London.  I  bave  written  to  tbe  Marquess  of  Sandown, 
reminding  bim  of  our  acquaintance,  and  saying  tbat  you  will  voucb 
for  tbe  respectability  of  young  Nabum,  wbo  will  take  tbe  liberty  of 
leaving  bis  card  at  Sandown  House.  I  do  not  wisb  tbat  be  sbould  be 
presented  at  your  court ;  for  I  conceive  tbat  a  republican  ougbt  not  to 
sanctify  by  bis  presence  any  exbibition  so  degrading  as  tbat  of  tbe 
Englisb  levee. 

Nabum  Hodge  will  call  on  you  at  breakfast  time;  I  bave  told  bim 
tbat  is  tbe  best  bour  to  find  yourself  and  tbe  dear  ducbess  at  borne. 
Give  my  love  to  ber  and  tbe  cbildren,  and  believe  me,  my  dear  friend, 
Your  Lordsbip's  most  faitbful  Servant, 
Ebenezer  Brown. 

Such  a  letter  as  this  will  pretty  surely  get  you  admission 
to  his  Grace ;  and,  of  course,  you  will  be  left  to  your  own 
resources  to  make  yourself  comfortable  in  the  house.  Do 
not  be  rebuffed  if  the  porter  says,  "  Not  at  home ; "  say, 
"  You  liveried  varlet  and  slave  !  Do  you  pretend  to  lie  in 
the  face  of  a  free-born  American  republican  ?  Take  in  that 
note,  do  you  hear,  or  I'll  wap  you  like  one  of  my  niggers ! " 
Those  fat,  over-fed  men,  who  loll  in  porters'  chairs,  are 
generally  timid,  and  your  card  will  be  sure  to  be  received. 

While  a  servant  has  gone  up-stairs  with  it,  walk  into  the 
library  at  once,*  look  at  all  the  papers,  the  seals,  the  books 
on  the  table,  the  addresses  of  all  the  letters,  examine  the 
pictures,  and  shout  out,  "Here,  you  fat  porter,  come  and 
tell  me  who  these  tarnation  people  are ! "  The  man  will 
respectfully  come  to  you ;  and  whatever  be  your  fate  with 
the  family  up-stairs  —  whether  the  duke  says  he  cannot 
see  you,  or  that  he  knows  nothing  of  you,  at  least  you  will 
have  had  an  insight  into  his  house  and  pictures,  and  may 
note  down  everything  you  see. 

It  is  not  probable  that  he  will  say  he  knows  nothing  of 
you.  He  is  too  polite  and  kind-hearted  for  that,  —  nay, 
possibly,  may  recall  to  his  mind  that  he  once  did  receive 
an  American  by  the  name  of  Brown.     If  he  only  says  he 

*  Of  course,  you  will  select  a  house  that  is  not  entre  cour  etjardin. 


THIRD  PROFESSION.  295 

cannot  see  j'ou,  of  course  you  will  call  again  till  lie  does ; 
and  be  sure  that  the  porter  will  never  dare  to  shut  the  door 
on  you. 

You  will  call  and  call  so  often,  that  he  will  end  by  in- 
viting you  to  a  party.  ^Meanwhile,  you  will  have  had  your 
evenings  pretty  well  filled  bv  invitations  from  the  sisters 
of  your  friend  whom  you  met  in  the  cafe  at  Paris  —  agree- 
able girls  —  say  their  name  is  Smith,  and  they  live  in  Mon- 
tague Place,  or  near  Blackheath.  Be  sure  that  you  tell 
them  all  that  you  know  the  Duke  of  Dorsetshire,  that  you 
have  been  with  his  Grace  that  morning,  and  so  on ;  and  not 
only  good  old  Mr.  Smith,  but  all  his  circle,  will  take  care 
to  invite  you  to  as  many  dinners  as  you  can  possibly 
devour. 

Your  conduct  at  these  repasts  will  be  perfectly  simple. 
Keep  your  eyes  open,  and  do  pretty  much  as  you  see  other 
people  do ;  but  never  acknowledge  that  you  are  in  fault  if 
any  one  presumes  to  blame  you.  Eat  peas  with  your  knife  ; 
and,  if  gently  taken  to  task  about  this  habit  by  Smith  (a 
worthy  man,  who  takes  an  interest  in  his  ''son's  friend"), 
say,  "  Well,  General  Jackson  eats  peas  with  his  knife  :  and 
I  ain't  proud.  I  guess  General  Jackson  can  wap  any  Eng- 
lishman." Say  this  sort  of  thing  simply  and  unaffectedly, 
and  you  will  be  sure  not  to  be  pestered  as  to  your  mode  of 
conveying  your  food  to  your  mouth. 

Take  care  at  dinner  not  to  admire  anything ;  on  the  con- 
trary, if  they  bring  you  Madeira,  saying,  "  La  bless  you. 
taste  our  Madeira.  My  father's  got  some  that  he  gave  fifty 
dollars  a  bottle  for ;  this  here  ain't  fit  to  bile  for  puddns." 
If  there  are  ducks,  ask  everybody  if  they  have  tasted  can- 
vas-backed ducks  ;  oysters,  say  the  New  York  oyster  will 
feed  six  men ;  turtle,  prefer  terrapin,  and  so  on. 

And  don't  fancy  that  because  you  are  insolent  and  dis- 
agreeable, people  will  be  shy  of  you  in  this  country.  Sir, 
they  like  to  be  bullied  in  England,  as  to  be  bullies  when 
abroad.  The}'  like  a  man  to  sneer  at  their  dinners ;  it 
argues  that  you  are  in  the  habit  of  getting  better.  I  have 
known  the  lowest-bred  men  imaginable  pass  for  fine  fellows 
by  following  this  simple  rule.  Eemember  through  life  that 
a  man  will  always  rather  submit  to  insolence  than  resist  it. 

Let  this  be  your  guide,  then,  in  your  commerce  with  all 
ranks.  You  will  dine,  of  course,  with  your  friends  about 
Eussell  Square  and  Greenwich,  until  such  time  as  you  get 
a  fair  entry  into  the  houses  of  greater  people  (by  the  way, 


296  FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS. 

you  will  find  these  much  more  shy  of  dinners,  and  more 
profuse  with  their  tea-parties,  than  your  humbler  entertain- 
ers). But,  if  you  don't  dine  with  them,  you  must  keep  up 
your  credit  in  the  other  quarter  of  the  town  —  make  believe 
to  dine  with  them.  You  can  get  a  dinner  for  eightpence 
on  those  days,  and  figure  in  the  evening  party  afterwards. 

At  the  great  parties,  make  up  to  that  part  of  the  room 
where  the  distinguished  people  are,  —  not  the  great  men  of 
the  land,  but  the  wits,  mark  you,  -^  and  begin  talking  with 
them  at  once  ;  they  will  all  respect  you  in  their  hearts,  as 
they  respect  themselves,  for  being  at  such  a  grand  house  as 
that  of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Dorsetshire. 

The  wits  will,  after  a  little,  take  you  to  the  Wits'  Club, 
the  Muffinaeum,  where  you  will  enter  gratis  as  a  distin- 
guished foreigner.  You  can  breakfast  there  for  a  shilling, 
have  the  run  of  the  letter-paper,  and  will,  of  course,  take 
care  to  date  your  letters  from  thence. 

Mind,  then,  once  put  your  foot  into  a  great  house,  and 
your  fortune  in  society  is  easily  made.  You  have  but  to 
attack,  people  will  rather  yield  than  resist.  I  once  knew 
a  Kentucky  man  who,  hearing  the  Marquess  of  Carum 
Gorum  talking  of  the  likelihood  of  grouse  that  year,  inter- 
posed, "  My  lord,  it  must  be  a  wonderful  sight  for  a  stran- 
ger to  see  a  grand  meeting  of  the  aristocrats  of  England  in 
the  heathery  hills  of  Scotia.  What  would  I  not  give  to 
behold  such  an  exhibition ! "  The  marquess  smiled, 
shrugged,  and  said,  "Well,  sir,  if  you  come  North,  you 
must  give  me  a  day  ;  "  and  then  turned  on  his  heel.  This 
was  in  March :  on  the  fourteenth  of  August,  Kentuck 
appeared  with  a  new  shooting-jacket  and  a  double-barrelled 
gun,  got  on  credit,  and  stayed  a  fortnight  at  Mull  House. 

At  last,  he  sent  in  a  letter,  before  breakfast  on  Sabbath 
morning,  to  Lord  Carum  Gorum,  saying,  that  he  knew  he 
was  trespassing  beyond  all  measure  upon  his  lordship's 
patience,  but  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  land,  his  remit- 
tances from  America  had  somehow  been  delayed,  and 
the  fact  was,  that  there  he  was,  water-logged  till  they 
came. 

Lord  Carum  Gorum  enclosed  him  a  ten-pound  note  in  an 
envelope,  with  a  notification  that  a  gig  would  be  ready  for 
him  after  service,  and  Kentuck  passed  a  very  agreeable 
fortnight  in  Edinburgh,  and  published  in  the  "  Buffalo's 
Hump  "  a  brilliant  account  of  his  stay  at  the  noble  lord's 
castle. 


THIRD   PROFESSION.  297 

Then,  again,  if  you  see  a  famous  beauty,  praise  every  one 
of  her  points  outrageously  in  your  letter  to  the  '•  Buffalo's 
Hump  "  as 

ON  THE   LADY   EMILY  X , 

WHO   LEFT  DANCING  AND   CAME    AND   TALKED    TO  THE   POET   AT 
THE  DEJEUNER   AT   C LODGE. 

Beneath  the  gold  acacia  buds 
My  gentle  Xora  sits  and  broods, 
Far,  far  away  in  Boston  woods, 

My  gentle  Nora ! 

I  see  the  tear-drop  in  her  e'e. 

Her  bosom's  heaving  tenderly; 

I  know  —  I  know  she  tbinks  of  me. 

My  darling  Nora! 

And  where  am  I?    My  love,  whilst  thou 
Sit'st  sad  beneath  the  acacia  bough, 
Where  pearl's  on  neck,  and  wreath  on  brow, 
I  stand,  my  Xora! 

'Mid  carcanet  and  coronet, 

Where  joy-lamps  shine  and  flowers  are  set  — 

Where  England's  chivalry  are  met. 

Behold  me,  Nora! 

In  this  strange  scene  of  revelry. 
Amidst  this  gorgeous  chivalry, 
A  form  I  saw  was  like  to  thee. 

My  love  — my  Nora! 

She  paused  amidst  her  converse  glad; 
The  lady  saw  that  I  was  sad, 
She  pitied  the  poor  lonely  lad,  — 

Dost  love  her,  Nora? 

In  sooth,  she  is  a  lovely  dame, 

A  lip  of  red,  an  eye  of  flame. 

And  clustering  golden  locks,  the  same 

As  thine,  dear  Nora! 

Her  glance  is  softer  than  the  dawn's. 
Her  foot  is  lighter  than  the  fawn's. 
Her  breast  is  whiter  than  the  swan's. 

Or  thine,  my  Nora ! 

Oh,  gentle  breast  to  pity  me ! 
Oh,  lovely  Ladve  Emily! 
Till  death  — till  death,  I'll  think  of  thee  — 
Of  thee  and  Nora ! 


298        '  FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS. 

This  sort  of  thing,  addressed  to  a  thin,  shrivelled  person 
of  five  and  forty  (and  I  declare  it  is  as  easy  to  write  such 
verses  as  to  smoke  a  cigar),  will  be  sure  to  have  its  effect ; 
and,  in  this  way,  you  may  live  a  couple  of  years  in  Eng- 
land very  fashionably  and  well.  By  impudence  you  may 
go  from  one  great  house  to  another  —  by  impudence  you 
may  get  credit  with  all  the  fashionable  tradesmen  in  Lon- 
don —  by  impudence  you  may  find  a  publisher  for  your 
tour;  and  if  with  all  this  impudence  you  cannot  manage 
to  pick  up  a  few  guineas  by  the  way,  you  are  not  the  man 
I  take  you  for. 

And  this  is  my  last  profession.  In  concluding  the  sketch, 
of  which  it  is  of  course  not  necessary  for  me  to  say  that 
the  little  character  I  have  drawn  out  is  not  taken  from  any 
particular  individual.  No,  on  my  honor,  far  from  it ;  it  is, 
rather,  an  agreeable  compound  of  many  individuals,  whom 
it  has  been  our  fortune  to  see  here  ;  and  as  for  the  story  of 
the  Marquess  of  Caruni  Gorum,  it  is,  like  the  noble  mar- 
quess himself,  a  fiction.  It  is  a  possibility,  that  is  all ; 
an  embodiment  of  a  good  and  feasible  way  of  raising  money. 
Perhaps  gentlemen  in  America,  where  our  periodicals  are 
printed  regularly,  as  I  am  given  to  understand,  may  find 
the  speculation  worth  their  while ;  and,  accordingly,  it  is 
recommended  to  the  republican  press. 

To  the  discriminating  press  of  this  country,  how  shall  I 
express  my  obligations  for  the  unanimous  applause  which 
hailed  my  first  appearance  ?  It  is  the  more  wonderful  as, 
I  pledge  my  sacred  word,  I  never  wrote  a  document  before 
much  longer  than  a  laundress's  bill,  or  the  acceptance  of 
an  invitation  to  dinner.  But  enough  of  this  egotism ; 
thanks  for  praise  conferred  sound  like  vanity  ;  gratitude 
is  hard  to  speak  of,  and  at  present  it  swells  the  full  heart 
of  G-EORGE  Savage  Fitz-Boodle. 

P.S.  —  My  memoirs,  and  other  interesting  works,  will 
appear  next  month ;  the  length  necessary  to  a  discussion 
of  the  promised  ''  Professions,"  having  precluded  the  possi- 
bility of  their  insertion  in  the  present  number.  They  are 
of  thrilling  interest. 


THE  'S    WIFE.  299 


MEX'S    WIVES. 
No.  IV. 

THE    'S    WIFE, 

{Fraser's  Magazine,  November,  1843.] 

We  lay  down  on  a  little  mound  at  a  half-league  from  the 
city  gates  in  a  pleasant  grass  besprinkled  with  all  the 
flowers  of  summer.  The  river  went  shining  by  us,  jump- 
ing over  innumerable  little  rocks,  and  by  the  beds  of  wav- 
ing, whispering  rushes,  until  it  reached  the  old  city  bridge 
with  its  dismantled  tower  and  gate,  under  the  shadow  of 
which  sat  Maximilian  in  his  eternal  punt  bobbing  for  gud- 
geon. Farther  on  you  saw  the  ancient  city  walls  and  ram- 
parts, with  the  sentinels  pacing  before  the  blue  and  yellow 
barriers,  and  the  blue  eagle  of  Pumpernickel  over  the  gate. 
All  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the  town  rose  behind  the 
grim  bastions,  under  the  clear  blue  sky ;  the  bells  were 
ringing  as  they  ahva^'S  are,  the  birds  in  the  little  wood 
hard  by  were  singing  and  chirping,  the  garden-houses  and 
taverns  were  full  of  students  drinking  beer,  and  resounded 
with  their  choruses.  To  the  right  was  the  old  fortress, 
with  its  gables  and  pinnacles  cresting  the  huge  hill,  up 
which  a  zig-zag  path  toiled  painfully. 

"  It  is  easier,"  said  I,  with  much  wisdom,  "  to  come  down 
that  hill  than  to  mount  it."  I  suppose  the  robber-knights 
who  inhabited  Udolf  of  old  chose  the  situation  for  that 
reason.  If  they  saw  a  caravan  in  the  plain  here,  they  came 
down  upon  it  with  an  impetus  that  infallibly  over-set  the 
guards  of  the  merchants'  treasure.  If  the  dukes  took  a 
fancy  to  attack  it,  the  escaladers,  when  they  reached  the 
top  of  the  eminence,  were  so  out  of  wind  that  they  could 
be  knocked  over  like  so  many  penguins,  and  were  cut  down 
before  they  had  rallied  breath  enough  to  cry  quarter. 
From  Udolf  you  could  batter  the  town  to  pieces  in  ten 
minutes.  What  a  skurry  there  would  be  if  a  shell  fell 
plump  into  the  market-place,  and  what  a  deal  of  eggs  and 
butter  would  be  smashed  there  !     Hark  !  there  is  a  bu,Q:le. 


300  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

"It  is  the  mad  trumpeter,"  said  Schneertbart.  "Half 
the  fortress  is  given  up  now  to  the  madmen  of  the  princi- 
pality, and  the  other  half  is  for  the  felons.  See !  there  is 
a  gang  of  them  at  work  on  the  road  yonder." 

"  Is  Udolf  any  relation  of  the  Castle  of  Udolpho  ?  " 

"  It  has  its  mysteries,"  said  Milchbrod,  nodding  his  head 
solemnly,  "  as  well  as  that  castle  which  Lord  Byron  has 
rendered  immortal.     Was  it  not  Lord  Byron  ?  " 

"  Caspar  Milchbrod,  I  believe  it  was,"  answered  I.  "  Do 
you  know  any  of  them  ?  If  you  have  a  good  horrid  story 
of  ghosts,  robbers,  cut-throats  and  murders,  pray  tell  it ; 
we  have  an  hour  yet  to  dinner,  and  murder  is  my  delight ! " 

"  I  shall  tell  you  the  story  of  Angelica,  the  wife  of  the  — 
Hum  ! "  said  he. 

-  Whose  wife  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  point  of  the  story.  You  may  add  it  to 
your  histories  of  'Men's  Wives,'  that  are  making  such  a 
sensation  all  over  England  and  Germany.     Listen  ! '' 

Schneertbart,  at  the  mention  of  the  story,  jumped  up  as 
if  he  would  make  off,  but,  being  fat  and  of  an  indolent 
turn,  he  thought  better  of  it,  and,  pulling  the  flap  of  his 
cap  over  his  face,  and  sprawling  out  on  his  back,  like  the 
blue  spread-eagle  over  the  tower-gate,  incontinently  fell 
asleep. 

Milchbrod,  darting  at  him  a  look  of  scorn,  began  the 
following  history :  — 

"  In  the  time  of  Duke  Bernard  the  Invincible,  whose  vic- 
tory over  Sigismund  of  Kalbsbratia  obtained  him  the  above 
well-merited  title  (for  though  he  was  beaten  several  times 
afterwards,  yet  his  soul  was  encouraged  to  the  end,  and, 
therefore,  he  was  denominated  Invincible  with  perfect  jus- 
tice). In  Duke  Bernard's  time  the  fortress  of  Udolf  was 
much  more  strongly  garrisoned  than  at  present,  though  a 
prison  then  as  now.  The  great  hall,  where  you  may  now 
see  the  poor  madmen  of  the  duchy  eating  their  humble 
broth  from  their  wooden  trenchers  and  spoons,  was  the 
scene  of  many  a  gallant  feast,  from  which  full  butts  of  wine 
returned  empty  ;  fat  oxen  disappeared,  all  except  the  bone  ; 
at  which  noble  knights  got  drunk  by  the  side  of  spotless 
ladies,  and  were  served  off  gold  and  out  of  jewelled  flagons 
by  innumerable  pages  and  domestics  in  the  richest  of 
liveries.  A  sad  change  is  it  now,  my  friend.  When  I 
think  the  livery  of  the  place  is  an  odious  red  and  yellow 
serge,  that  the  servants  of  the  castle  have   their   heads 


THE  \S    WIFE.  301 

shaved  and  a  chain  to  their  legs  instead  of  round  their 
necks,  and  when  I  think  that  the  glories  and  festivities  of 
Udolf  are  now  passed  away  forever  !  Oh  !  golden  days  of 
chivalry,  a  descendant  of  the  Milchbrods  may  well  deplore 
you! 

''  The  court  where  they  beat  hemp  now  was  once  a  stately 
place  of  arms,  where  warriors  jousted  and  knights  ran  at 
the  ring.  Ladies  looked  on  from  the  windows  of  the 
great  hall  and  from  the  castellan's  apartments,  and,  though 
the  castle  was  gay  and  lordly  as  a  noble  castle  should  be, 
yet  were  not  the  purposes  of  security  and  punishment  for- 
gotten ;  under  the  great  hall  were  innumerable  dungeons, 
vaults,  and  places  of  torture,  where  the  enemies  of  our 
dukes  suffered  the  punishment  of  their  crimes.  They  have 
been  bricked  up  now  for  the  most  part,  for  what  I  cannot 
but  call  a  foolish  philanthropy  found  these  dungeons  too 
moist  and  too  dark  for  malefactors  of  the  present  day,  who 
must,  forsooth,  have  whitewashed  rooms  and  dry  beddings, 
whilst  our  noble  ancestors  were  fain  to  share  their  cell  with 
toads,  serpents,  and  darkness ;  and  sometimes  instead  of 
flock  mattresses  and  iron  bedsteads,  to  stretch  their  limbs 
on  the  rack.     Civilization,  my  dear  sir  "  — 

Here  a  loud  snort  from  Schneertbart  possibly  gave  ^lilch- 
brod  a  hint  that  he  was  digressing  too  much ;  and,  omitting 
his  opinions  about  civilization,  he  proceeded. 

"In  Duke  Bernard's  time,  then,  this  prison  was  in  its 
most  palmy  and  flourishing  state.  The  pains  of  the  rack 
and  the  axe  were  at  that  time  much  more  frequent  than  at 
present,  and  the  wars  of  religion  in  which  Germany  was 
plunged,  and  in  which  our  good  duke,  according  to  his  con- 
victions, took  alternately  the  Romanist  and  the  Reformed 
side,  brought  numbers  of  our  nobles  into  arms,  into  con- 
spiracies and  treasons,  and  consequently  into  prison  and 
torture-chambers.  I  mention  these  facts  to  show,  that  as 
the  prison  was  a  place  of  some  importance  and  containing 
people  of  rank,  the  guardianship  was  naturally  confided  to 
a  person  in  whom  the  duke  could  place  the  utmost  confi- 
dence. Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  famous  Colonel  Dol- 
chenblitz  ?  " 

I  confessed  I  had  not. 

"  Dolchenblitz,  as  a  young  man.  was  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  warriors  of  his  day  ;  and,  as  a  soldier,  captain, 
and  afterwards  colonel  of  free  companies,  had  served  under 
every  flag  in  every  war  and  in  every  country  in  Europe.    He, 


302  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

under  the  French,  conquered  the  Milanese  ;  he  then  passed 
over  into  the  Spanish  service,  and  struck  down  King 
Francis  at  Pavia  with  his  hammer-of-arms  ;  he  was  the 
fourth  over  the  wall  of  Eome  when  it  was  sacked  by  the 
constable,  and  having  married  and  made  a  considerable 
plunder  there  he  returned  to  his  native  country,  where  he 
distinguished  himself  alternately  in  the  service  of  the  Em- 
peror and  the  Eeformed  princes.  A  wound  in  the  leg  pre- 
vented him  at  length  from  being  so  active  in  the  field  as  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  be ;  and  Duke  Bernard  the  Invin- 
cible, knowing  his  great  bravery,  his  skill,  his  unalterable 
fidelity  (which  was  indestructible  as  long  as  his  engage- 
ment lasted),  and  his  great  cruelty  and  sternness,  chose 
him  very  properly  to  be  governor  of  his  state,  fortress,  and 
prison. 

"The  lady  whom  Colonel  Dolchenblitz  married  was  a 
noble  and  beautiful  Eoman,  and  his  wooing  of  her,  it  would 
appear,  was  somewhat  short.  '  I  took  the  best  method  of 
winning  Frau  Dolchenblitz's  heart,'  he  would  say.  '  I  am 
an  ugly  old  trooper,  covered  with  scars,  fond  of  drink  and 
dice,  with  no  more  manners  than  my  battle-horse,  and  she, 
forsooth,  was  in  love  with  a  young  countlet  who  was  as 
smooth  as  herself,  and  as  scented  as  a  flower  garden ;  but 
when  my  black-riders  dragged  her  father  and  brother  into 
the  court-yard,  and  had  ropes  ready  to  hang  them  at  the 
gate,  I  warrant  my  Angelica  found  that  she  loved  me  better 
than  her  scented  lover ;  and  so  I  saved  the  lives  of  my 
father  and  brother-in-law,  and  the  dear  creature  consented 
to  be  mine.' 

"  Of  this  marriage  there  came  but  one  child,  a  daughter ; 
and  the  Roman  lady  presently  died,  not  altogether  sound 
in  her  senses,  it  was  said,  from  the  treatment  to  which  her 
rough  husband  subjected  her.  The  widower  did  not  pre- 
tend to  much  grief ;  and  the  daughter,  who  had  seen  her 
mother  sneered  at,  sworn  at,  beaten  daily  when  her  gallant 
father  was  in  liquor,  had  never  had  any  regard  for  her 
poor  mother ;  and,  in  her  father's  quarrels  with  his  lady, 
used  from  her  earliest  years  to  laugh  and  rejoice  and  take 
the  old  trooper's  side.  You  may  imagine  from  this,"  cried 
Milchbrod,  "  that  she  was  not  brought  up  in  a  very  amiable 
school.  Ah  !  "  added  the  youth,  with  a  blush,  "  how  unlike 
was  she,  in  all  respects  but  in  beauty,  to  my  Lischen  ! 

"There  is  still  in  the  castle  gallery  a  picture  of  the 
Angelica,  who  bore  the  reputation  at  eighteen  of  being  one 


THE  '5    WIFE.  303 

of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  the  world.  She  is  repre- 
sented in  a  dress  of  red  velvet  looped  up  at  the  sleeves  and 
breast  with  jewels,  her  head  is  turned  over  her  shoulder, 
looking  at  you,  and  her  long  yellow  hair  flows  over  her 
neck.  Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  eyebrows  of  an  auburn  color, 
her  lips  open  and  smiling ;  but  that  smile  is  so  diabolical, 
and  those  eyes  have  such  an  infernal  twinkle,  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  look  at  the  picture  without  a  shudder,  and  I 
declare,  for  my  part,  that  I  would  not  like  to  be  left  alone 
in  a  room  with  the  portrait  and  its  horrid  glassy  eyes  always 
following  and  leering  after  you. 

"  From  a  very  early  age  her  father  would  always  insist 
upon  having  her  by  his  side  at  table,  where,  I  promise  you, 
the  conversation  was  not  always  as  choice  as  in  a  nunnery, 
and  where  they  drank  deeper  than  at  a  hermitage.  After 
dinner  the  dice  would  be  brought,  and  the  little  girl  often 
called  the  mains  and  threw  for  her  father,  and  he  said  she 
always  brought  him  luck  when  she  did  so.  But  this  must 
have  been  a  fancy  of  the  old  soldier's,  for,  in  spite  of  his 
luck,  he  grew  poorer  and  poorer,  all  his  plunder  taken  in 
the  wars  went  gradually  down  the  throat  of  the  dice-box, 
and  he  was  presently  so  poor  that  his  place  as  governor  of 
the  prison  was  his  only  means  of  livelihood,  and  that  he 
could  only  play  once  a  month  when  his  pay  came  in. 

"  In  spite  of  his  poverty  and  his  dissolute  life  and  his 
ill-treatment  of  his  lady,  he  was  inordinately  proud  of  his 
marriage  ;  for  the  trutli  is,  the  lady  was  of  the  Colonna 
family.  There  was  not  a  princess  of  Germany  who,  in  the 
matter  of  birth,  was  more  haughty  than  ^ladame  Angelica, 
the  governor's  daughter ;  and  the  young  imp  of  Lucifer, 
when  she  and  her  father  sat  at  drink  and  dice  with  the 
lance-knights  and  officers,  always  took  the  pas  of  her  own 
father,  and  had  a  raised  seat  for  herself,  while  her  company 
sat  on  benches.  The  old  soldier  admired  this  pride  in  his 
daughter,  as  he  admired  every  other  good  or  bad  quality 
she  possessed.  She  had  often  seen  the  prisoners  flogged 
in  the  court-yard,  and  never  turned  pale.  '  Par  Dieu  ! '  the 
father  would  say,  '  the  girl  has  a  gallant  courage  ! '  If  she 
lost  at  dice  she  would  swear  in  her  shrill  voice  as  well  as 
any  trooper,  and  the  father  would  laugh  till  the  tears  ran 
down  his  old  cheeks.  She  could  not  read  very  well,  but 
she  could  ride  like  an  Amazon ;  and  Count  Sprinboch  (the 
court  chamberlain,  who  was  imprisoned  ten  years  at  Udolf 
for  treading  on  the  duchess-dowager's  gouty  toe),  taking  a 


304  Firz-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

fancy  to  the  child,  taught  her  to  dance  and  to  sing  to  the 
mandolin,  in  both  of  which  accomplishments  she  acquired 
great  skill. 

''  Such  were  the  accomplishments  of  the  Angelica,  when, 
at  about  the  sixteenth  year  of  her  age,  the  court  came  to 
reside  in  the  town  ;  for  the  Imperialists  were  in  possession 
of  our  residence,  and  here,  at  a  hundred  miles  away  from 
them,  Duke  Bernard  the  Invincible  Avas  free  from  molesta- 
tion. On  the  first  public  day  the  governor  of  the  fort  came 
down  in  his  litter  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  sovereign,  and 
his  daughter,  the  lovely  Angelica,  rode  a  white  palfrey, 
and  ambled  most  gracefully  at  his  side. 

"  The  appearance  of  such  a  beauty  set  all  the  court-gal- 
lants in  a  flame.  Not  one  of  the  maids  of  honor  could 
compare  with  her,  and  their  lovers  left  them  by  degrees. 
The  steep  road  up  to  the  castle  yonder  was  scarce  ever 
without  one  or  more  cavaliers  upon  it  pinked  out  in  their 
best,  as  ga}^  as  chains  and  feathers  could  make  them,  and 
on  their  way  to  pay  their  court  to  the  Lily  of  Udolf ;  the 
lily  —  the  Tiger-lily,  forsooth  !  But  man,  foolish  man,  only 
looked  to  the  face,  and  not  to  the  soul,  as  I  did  when  I 
selected  my  Lischen. 

"  The  drinking  and  dicing  now  went  on  more  gayly  than 
it  had  done  for  many  years  :  for  when  young  noblemen  sit 
down  to  play  with  a  lady  we  know  who  it  is  that  wins,  and 
Madame  Angelica  was,  pardi,  not  squeamish  in  gaining 
their  money.  It  was,  '  Fair  sir,  I  will  be  double  or  quits 
with  you.'  'Noble  baron,  I  will  take  you  three  to  one.' 
'  Worthy  count,  I  will  lay  my  gold  chain  against  your  bay 
gelding.'  And  so  forth.  And  by  the  side  of  the  lovely 
daughter  sat  the  old  father,  tossing  the  drink  off,  and  fling- 
ing the  dice,  and  roaring,  swearing,  and  singing,  like  a 
godless  old  trooper  as  he  was.  Then,  of  mornings  there 
would  be  hunting  and  hawking  parties,  and  it  was  always 
who  should  ride  by  the  Angelica's  side,  and  who  should 
have  the  best  horse,  and  the  finest  doublet,  and  leap  the 
biggest  ditch,  over  which  she  could  jump,  I  warrant  you, 
as  well  as  the  best  rider  there.  The  staid  matrons  and 
ladies  of  the  court  avoided  this  siren,  but  what  cared  she 
so  long  as  the  men  were  with  her  ?  The  duke  did  not  like 
to  see  his  young  men  thus  on  the  road  to  ruin  ;  but  his 
advice  and  his  orders  were  all  in  vain.  The  Erb  Prinz 
himself,  Prince  Maurice,  was  caught  by  the  infection,  and 
having  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  the  Angelica^  and 


THE  '5    WIFE.  305 

made  her  great  presents  of  jewels  and  horses,  was  sent  by 
his  father  to  Wittenberg,  where  he  was  told  to  forget  his 
love  in  his  books. 

"  There  was,  however,  in  the  duke's  service,  and  an 
especial  friend  and  favorite  of  the  hereditary  prince,  a 
young  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Ernst  von  Waldberg,  who, 
though  sent  back  to  the  university  along  with  the  young 
duke,  had  not  the  heart  to  remain  there,  for,  indeed,  his 
heart  was  at  Castle  Udolf  with  the  bewitching  Angelica. 
This  unlucky  and  simple  Ernst  was  the  most  passionate  of 
all  the  Angelica's  admirers,  and  had  committed  a  thousand 
extravagances  for  her  sake.  He  had  ridden  into  Hungary 
and  brought  back  a  Turkish  tnrban  for  her,  with  an  unbe- 
liever's head  in  it,  too.  He  had  sold  half  his  father's  estate 
and  bought  a  jewel  with  it,  with  which  he  presented  her. 
He  had  wagered  a  hundred  gold  crowns  against  a  lock  of 
her  hair,  and,  having  won,  caused  a  casket  to  be  made  with 
the  money,  on  which  was  engraved  an  inscription  by  the 
court  poet,  signifying  that  the  gold  within  the  casket  was 
a  thousand  times  more  valuable  tlian  the  gold  whereof  it 
was  made,  and  that  one  was  the  dross  of  the  earth,  whereas 
the  other  one  came  from  an  angel. 

"An  angel,  indeed  !  If  they  had  christened  that  An- 
gelica Di.'ibolica,  they  would  have  been  nearer  the  mark ; 
but  tlie  devils  were  angels  once,  and  one  of  these  fallen 
ones  was  Angelica. 

"  AVhen  the  poor  young  fellow  had  well-nigh  spent  his 
all  in  presents  and  jewels  for  Angelica,  or  over  the  tables 
and  dice  with  her  father,  lie  bethought  him  that  he  would 
ask  the  young  lady  in  marriage,  and  so  humbly  proffered 
his  suit. 

"  '  How  much  land  have  you,  my  Lord  Ernst  ? '  she  said, 
in  a  scornful  way. 

"  '  Alas  !  I  am  but  a  younger  son.  My  brother  ^lax  has 
the  family  estate,  and  I  but  an  old  tower  and  a  few  acres, 
which  came  to  me  from  my  mother's  famih*,'  answered 
Ernst.  But  he  did  not  say  how  his  brother  had  often  paid 
his  debts  and  filled  his  purse,  and  how  many  of  the  elder's 
crowns  had  been  spent  over  the  dice-table  and  had  gone  to 
enrich  Angelica  and  her  father. 

"'But  you  must  have  great  stores  of  money,'  continued 
she,  '  for  what  gentleman  of  the  court  spends  so  gallantly 
as  you  ? ' 

" '  It  is  my  brother's  monej^,'  said  Ernst  gloomily,  '  and 


306  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

I  will  ask  him  for  no  more  of  it.  But  I  have  enough  left 
to  buy  a  horse  and  sword,  and  with  these,  if  you  will  but 
be  mine,  I  vow  to  win  fame  and  wealth  enough  for  any 
princess  in  Christendom.' 

"  ^  A  horse  and  sword ! '  cried  Angelica  ;  ^  a  pretty  for- 
tune, forsooth.  Any  one  of  my  father's  troopers  has  as 
much  !  You  win  fame  and  wealth ;  you  a  fitting  husband 
for  the  best  lady  in  Christendom  ?  Psha !  Look  at  what 
you  have  done  as  yet.  Sir  Ernst,  and  brag  no  more.  You 
had  a  property,  and  you  spent  it  in  three  months  upon  a 
woman  you  never  saw  before.  I  have  no  fancy  to  marry  a 
beggar,  or  to  trust  to  an  elder  brother  for  charity,  or  to 
starve  in  rags  with  the  rats  in  your  family  tower.  Away 
with  you.  Sir  Spendthrift,  buy  your  horse  and  sword  if  you 
will,  and  go  and  travel  and  keep  yourself  and  your  horse  ; 
you  will  find  the  matter  hard  enough  without  having  a 
wife  at  your  pillion.' 

"And,  so  saying,  she  called  her  huntsmen  and  hawks, 
and,  with  a  gay  train  of  gentlemen  behind  her,  went  out 
into  the  woods,  as  usual,  where  Diana  herself,  had  she  been 
out  a-hunting  that  day,  could  not  have  been  more  merry, 
nor  looked  more  beautiful  and  royal. 

"  As  for  Ernst,  when  he  found  how  vain  his  love  was, 
and  that  he  had  only  been  encouraged  by  Angelica  in  order 
to  be  robbed  and  cast  away,  a  deep  despair  took  possession 
of  the  poor  lad's  soul,  and  he  went  in  anguish  back  to  his 
brother's  house,  who  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  console  him  ; 
for,  having  stayed  a  while  with  his  brother,  Ernst  one 
morning  suddenly  took  horse  and  rode  away  never  to  re- 
turn. The  next  thing  that  his  weeping  elder  brother  heard 
of  him  was  that  he  had  passed  into  Hungary,  and  had 
been  slain  by  the  Turk  before  Buda.  One  of  his  comrades 
in  the  war  brought  back  a  token  from  Ernst  to  his  brother 
Max  —  it  was  the  gold  casket  which  contained  the  hair  of 
Angelica. 

"  Angelica  no  more  wept  at  receiving  this  news  than  she 
had  done  at  Ernst's  departure.  She  hunted  with  her  gal- 
lants as  before,  and  on  the  very  night  after  she  had  heard 
of  poor  young  Ernst's  death  appeared  at  supper  in  a  fine 
gold  chain  and  scarlet  robe  he  had  given  her.  The  hard- 
ness of  her  heart  did  not  seem  to  deter  the  young  gentle- 
men of  Saxony  from  paying  court  to  her,  and  her  cruelty 
only  added  to  the  universal  fame  of  her  beauty. 

"  Though  she  had  so  many  scores  of  lovers,  and  knew 


THE  'S    WIFE.  307 

well  enough  that  these  do  not  increase  with  age,  she  had 
never  as  yet  condescended  to  accept  of  one  for  a  husband, 
and  others,  and  of  the  noblest  sort,  might  be  mentioned, 
who,  as  well  as  Ernst,  had  been  ruined  and  forsaken  by  her. 
A  certain  witch  had  told  her  that  she  should  marry  a  noble- 
man who  should  be  the  greatest  swordsman  of  his  day. 
Who  was  the  greatest  warrior  of  Germany  ?  I  am  not 
sure  that  she  did  not  look  for  King  Gustave  to  divorce  his 
wife  and  fall  on  his  knees  to  her,  or  for  dark  Wallenstein 
to  conjure  the  death  of  his  princess  and  make  Angelica  the 
lady  of  Sagan.  Thus  time  went  on.  Lovers  went  up  the 
hill  of  Udolf,  and,  in  sooth !  lovers  came  down  :  the  lady 
there  was  still  the  loveliest  in  the  land,  and  when  the 
crown  prince  came  home  from  Wittenberg  she  would  still 
have  been  disposed  to  exercise  her  wiles  upon  him,  but  that 
it  was  now  too  late,  for  the  wise  duke,  his  highness's 
father,  had  married  the  young  lord  to  a  noble  princess  of 
Bavaria,  in  whose  innocence  he  forgot  the  dangerous  and 
wicked  Angelica.  I  promise  you  the  lady  of  Udolf  sneered 
prettily  at  the  new  princess,  and  talked  of  his  '  highness's 
humpbacked  Venus ; '  all  which  speeches  were  carried  to 
court,  and  inspired  the  duke  with  such  a  fury,  that  he  was 
for  shutting  up  Angelica  as  a  prisoner  in  her  father's  own 
castle  ;  but  wise  counsellors  intervened,  and  it  was  thought 
best  to  let  the  matter  drop.  For,  indeed,  comparisons  be- 
tween the  royal  princess  and  the  lady  of  Udolf  would  have 
been  only  unfavorable  to  the  former,  who,  between  our- 
selves, was  dark  of  complexion  and  not  quite  so  straight 
either  in  the  back  as  her  rival. 

"Presently  there  came  to  court  jNIax,  Ernst's  elder 
brother,  a  grave  man,  of  a  sharp  and  bitter  wit,  given  to 
books  and  studies,  but,  withal,  gentle  and  generous  to  the 
poor.  No  one  knew  how  generous  until  he  died,  when 
there  followed,  weeping,  such  crowds  of  the  humbler  sort 
his  body  to  the  grave  as  never  was  known  in  that  day,  for 
the  good  old  nobles  were  rather  accustomed  to  take  than 
to  give,  and  the  Lord  Max  was  of  the  noblest  and  richest 
of  all  the  families  in  the  duchy. 

"  Calm  as  he  was,  yet,  strange  to  say,  he  too  was  speedily 
caught  in  the  toils  of  Angelica,  and  seemed  to  be  as  much 
in  love  with  her  as  his  unfortunate  brother  had  been.  ^I 
do  not  wonder  at  Ernst's  passion  for  such  an  angelical 
being,'  he  said,  'and  can  fancy  any  man  dying  in  despair 
of  winning  her.'     These  words  were  carried  quickly  to  the 


308  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

lad}^  of  Udolf,  and  the  next  court  party  where  she  met 
Max  she  did  not  fail  to  look  towards  him  with  all  the  fas- 
cinations of  her  wonderful  eyes,  from  which  Max,  blushing 
and  bowing,  retreated  completely  overcome.  You  might 
see  him  on  his  gray  horse  riding  up  the  mountain  to  Udolf 
as  often  as  his  brother  had  been  seen  on  his  bay ;  and  of 
all  the  devoted  slaves  Angelica  had  in  her  court  this  un- 
happy man  became  the  most  subservient.  He  forsook  his 
books  and  calm  ways  of  life  to  be  always  by  the  enchan- 
tress's side ;  he,  who  had  never  cared  for  sport,  now,  for 
the  pleasure  of  following  Angelica,  became  a  regular  Nim- 
rod  of  the  chase ;  and  although,  up  to  the  time  of  his  ac- 
quaintance with  her,  he  had  abhorred  wine  and  gaming,  he 
would  pass  nights  now  boozing  with  the  old  drunkard,  and 
playing  at  the  dice  with  him  and  his  daughter. 

''  There  was  something  in  his  love  for  her  that  was  quite 
terrible.  Common,  light-minded  gallants  of  the  day  do 
not  follow  a  woman  as  Max  did,  but,  if  rebuffed  by  one,  fly 
off  to  another ;  or,  if  overcome  by  a  rival,  wish  him  good 
luck  and  betake  themselves  elsewhere.  This  ardent  gentle- 
man, loving  for  the  first  time,  seemed  resolved  to  have  no 
rival  near  him,  and  Angelica  could  scarcely  pardon  him  for 
the  way  in  which  he  got  rid  of  her  lovers  one  after  another. 
There  was  Baron  Herman,  who  was  much  in  her  good 
graces,  and  was  sent  away  to  England  by  Max's  influence 
with  the  duke ;  there  was  Count  Augustus,  with  whom  he 
picked  a  quarrel,  and  whom  he  wounded  in  a  duel.  All  the 
world  deplored  the  infatuation  of  this  brave  gentleman, 
and  the  duke  himself  took  him  to  task  for  suffering  him- 
self to  be  enslaved  by  a  woman  who  had  already  been  so 
fatal  to  his  family. 

"He  placed  himself  as  such  a  dragon  before  her  gate 
that  he  drove  away  all  wavering  or  faint-hearted  pretenders 
to  her  hand;  and  it  seemed  pretty  clear  that  Angelica,  if 
she  would  not  marry  him,  would  find  it  very  difficult  to 
marry  another.  And  why  not  marry  him  ?  He  was  noble, 
rich,  handsome,  wise,*  and  brave.  What  more  could  a  lady 
require  in  a  husband  ?  and  could  the  proud  Angelica  her- 
self expect  a  better  fate  ?  'In  my  mother's  lifetime,'  Max 
said,  '  I  cannot  marry.  She  is  old  now,  and  was  much 
shaken  by  the  death  of  Ernst,  and  she  would  go  to  the 
grave  with  a  curse  on  her  lips  for  me  did  she  think  I  was 
about  to  marry  the  woman  who  caused  my  brother's  death.' 

"  Thus,  although  he  did  not  actually  offer  his   hand  to 


THE  '<:    WIFE.  309 

her,  he  came  to  be  considered  generally  as  her  accepted 
lover;  and  the  gallants  who  before  had  been  ever  around 
her  fell  off  one  by  one.  I  am  not  sure  whether  Madame 
Angelica  was  pleased  with  the  alteration,  and  whether  she 
preferred  the  adoration  of  a  single  heart  to  the  love  of 
many,  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  before.  Perhaps, 
however,  her  reasoning  was  this  :  '  I  am  sure  of  Max  ;  he  is 
a  husband  of  whom  any  woman  might  be  proud ;  and  very 
few  nobles  in  Germany  are  richer  or  of  better  blood  than 
he.  He  cannot  marry  for  some  time  to  come.  Well,  I  am 
young,  and  can  afford  to  wait;  and  if,  meanw^hile,  there 
present  itself  some  better  name,  fortune,  and  person  than 
Max's,  I  am  free  to  choose,  and  can  fling  him  aside  like  his 
brother  before  him.'  Meantime,  thought  she,  I  can  dress 
Max  to  the  menage  of  matrimony ;  which  meant  that,  that 
she  could  make  a  very  slave  of  him,  as  she  did ;  and  he 
was  as  obedient  to  her  caprice  and  whims  as  her  page  or 
her  waiting-woman. 

"  The  entertainments  which  were  given  at  Castle  Udolf 
were  rather  more  liked  by  the  gentlemen  than  by  the  ladies, 
who  had  little  love  for  a  person  like  Angelica,  the  daughter 
of  a  man  only  ennobled  yesterday  —  a  woman  who  lived, 
laughed,  rode,  gambled,  in  the  society  of  men  as  familiarly 
as  if  she  had  a  beard  on  her  chin  and  a  rapier  at  her  side ; 
and,  above  all,  a  woman  who  was  incomparably  handsomer 
than  the  handsomest  of  her  rivals.  Thus  ladies'  visits  to 
her  were  not  frequent  ;  nor,  indeed,  did  she  care  much  for 
their  neglect.  She  was  not  born,  she  said,  to  spin  flax; 
nor  to  embroider  cushions ;  nor  to  look  after  house-maids 
and  scullions,  as  ladies  do.  She  received  her  male  guests 
as  though  she  were  a  queen,  to  whom  they  came  to  pay 
homage,  and  little  cared  that  their  wives  stayed  at  home. 

"  At  one  of  her  entertainments  Max  appeared  with  two 
masks  (it  was  the  custom  of  those  days  for  persons  to  go 
so  disguised;  and  j'ou  would  see  at  a  court-ball  half  the 
ladies  and  men,  especiall}'  the  ugly  of  the  former  sex,  so 
habited) ;  the  one,  coming  up  to  Angelica,  withdrew  his 
vizard,  and  she  saw  it  was  her  ancient  admirer  the  prince, 
who  stayed  for  a  while,  besought  her,  laughing,  to  keep  his 
visit  a  secret  from  the  princess,  and  then  left  her  to  Max 
and  the  other  mask  ;  but  the  other  did  not  remove  his  cov- 
ering, though  winningly  entreated  thereto  by  Angelica. 

"  The  mask  and  Max,  after  a  brief  conversation  with  the 
lady  of  the  castle,  sat  down  to  the  tables  to  play  at  dice. 


310  FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS. 

And  Max  called  presently  to  Angelica  to  come  and  play 
for  him,  to  which  invitation,  nothing  loath,  she  acceded. 
That  dice-box  has  a  temptation  for  woman  as  well  as  man, 
and  woe  to  both  if  they  yield  to  it ! 

"  '  Who  is  the  mask  ?  '  asked  Angelica  of  Max.  But 
Max  answered  that  his  name  was  for  the  present  a  mystery. 

" '  Is  he  noble  ?  '  said  the  scornful  lady. 

"  '  Did  he  not  come  hither  with  me  and  the  prince  ;  and 
am  I  in  the  habit  of  consorting  with  other  than  nobles  ? ' 
replied  Max,  as  haughty  as  she.  'The  mask  is  a  noble- 
man, ay,  and  a  soldier,  who  has  done  more  execution  in  his 
time  than  any  man  in  the  army.'  That  he  was  rich  was 
very  clear :  his  purse  was  well  filled ;  whether  he  lost  or 
won,  he  laughed  with  easy  gayety ;  and  Angelica  could  see 
under  his  mask  how  all  the  time  of  the  play  his  fierce, 
brilliant  eyes  watched  and  shone  on  her. 

"  She  and  Max,  who  played  against  the  stranger,  won 
from  him  a  considerable  sum.  '  I  would  lose  such  a  sum,' 
said  he,  '  every  night,  if  you,  fair  lady,  would  but  promise 
to  win  it  from  me  ; '  and,  asking  for,  and  having  been  prom- 
ised, a  revenge,  he  gallantly  took  his  leave. 

"  He  came  the  next  night,  and  the  partners  against  him 
had  the  same  good  luck  ;  a  third  and  a  fourth  night  Angelica 
received  him,  and,  as  she  always  won,  and  as  he  was  gay  at 
losing  as  another  is  at  winning,  and  was  always  ready  to 
laugh  and  joke  with  her  father,  or  to  utter  compliments  to 
herself,  Angelica  began  to  think  the  stranger  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  of  men. 

"  She  began  to  grudge,  too,  to  Max,  some  of  his  winnings  ; 
or,  rather,  she  was  angry  both  that  he  should  win  and  that 
he  should  not  win  enough :  for  Max  would  stop  playing  in 
the  midst,  as  it  seemed,  of  a  vein  of  good  luck ;  saying  that 
enough  was  won  and  lost  for  the  night ;  that  play  was  the 
amusement  of  gentlemen,  not  their  passion  nor  means  of 
gain  :  whereon  the  mask  would  gather  up  his  crowns  ;  and, 
greatly  to  the  annoyance  of  Angelica,  the  play  would 
cease. 

"  '  If  I  could  play  with  him  alone,'  thought  she,  '  there  is 
no  end  to  the  sums  which  I  might  win  of  this  stranger ; 
and  money  we  want.  Heaven  knows ;  for  my  father's  pay 
is  mortgaged  thrice  over  to  the  Jews,  and  we  owe  ten  times 
as  much  as  we  can  pay.' 

"  She  found  no  great  difficulty  in  managing  an  interview 
with  the  stranger  alone.     He  was  always  willing,  he  said, 


THE  \S    WIFE.  311 

to  be  at  her  side  ;  and  Max  being  called  at  this  time  into 
the  country,  the  pair  met  by  themselves,  or  in  the  company 
of  the  tipsy  old  governor  of  Udolf,  who  counted  for  no 
more  than  an  extra  flagon  in  the  room,  and  who  would  have 
let  his  daughter  play  for  a  million,  or  sit  down  to  a  match 
with  the  foul  fiend  himself,  were  she  so  minded  ;  and  here 
the  mask  and  Angelica  used  to  pass  many  long  evenings 
together. 

"  But  her  lust  of  gain  was  properly  punished  ;  for  when 
Max  was  gone,  instead  of  winning,  as  she  had  been  wont 
to  do  in  his  company,  Fortune  seemed  now  to  desert  her, 
and  she  lost  night  after  night.  Nor  was  the  mask  one  of 
the  sort  of  players  who  could  be  paid  off  by  a  smile,  as 
some  gallants  had  been ;  or  who  would  take  a  ringlet  as  a 
receipt  for  a  hundred  crowns  ;  or  would  play  on  credit,  as 
Angelica  would  have  done,  had  he  been  willing.  'Fair 
lady,'  said  he,  '  I  am  too  old  a  soldier  to  play  my  ducats 
against  smiles,  though  they  be  from  the  loveliest  lips  in 
the  world  ;  that  which  I  lose  I  pay  ;  that  which  I  win  I 
take.  Such  is  always  the  way  with  us  in  camp;  and 
"  donner  und  blitz  !  "  that  is  the  way  I  like  best.'  So  the 
day  Angelica  proposed  to  play  him  on  credit  he  put  up  his 
purse,  and,  laughing,  took  his  leave.  The  next  day  she 
pawned  a  jewel,  and  engaged  him  again ;  and,  in  sooth,  he 
went  off  laughing,  as  usual,  his  loud  laugh,  with  the  price 
of  the  emerald  in  his  pocket. 

"  When  they  were  alone,  it  must  be  said  that  the  mask 
made  no  difficulty  to  withdraw  his  vizard,  and  showed  a 
handsome,  pale,  wild  face  ;  with  black,  glaring  eyes  ;  sharp 
teeth,  and  black  hair  and  beard.  When  asked  what  he 
should  be  called,  he  said,  '■  Call  me  Wolfgang ;  but,  hist !  I 
am  in  the  imperial  service.  The  duke  would  seize  me  were 
he  to  know  that  I  was  here ;  for,'  added  he,  with  a  horrid 
grin,  '  I  slew  a  dear  friend  of  his  in  battle.'  He  always 
grinned,  did  Herr  Wolfgang;  he  laughed  a  hundred  times 
a  day,  ay,  and  drank  much,  and  swore  more.  There  was 
something  terrible  about  him  ;  and  he  loved  to  tell  terrible 
stories  of  the  wars,  in  which  he  could  match  for  horror  and 
cruelty  Col.  Dolchenblitz  himself. 

" '  This  is  the  man  I  would  have  for  thy  husband,  girl,' 
said  he  to  his  daughter ;  'he  is  a  thousand  times  better 
than  your  puling  courtiers  and  pale  bookworms ;  a  fellow 
that  can  drink  his  bottle,  and  does  not  fear  the  devil  him- 
self ;  and  can  use  his  sword  to  carve   out  for  himself  any 


312  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

fortune  to  Avhicli  lie  may  be  minded.  Thou  art  but  a  child 
to  him  in  play.  See  how  he  takes  your  ducats  from  you, 
and  makes  the  dice  obey  him.  Cease  playing  with  him, 
girl,  or  he  will  ruin  us  else  ;  and  so  fill  me  another  cup  of 
wine.' 

"  It  was  in  the  bottom  of  the  flagon  that  the  last  words 
of  the  old  man's  speeches  used  commonly  to  end ;  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  Angelica  was  not  prepared  to  think  the 
advice  given  a  very  good  one ;  for  it  was  in  the  nature  of 
this  lovely  girl  to  care  for  no  man.  But  it  seemed  to  her, 
that  in  daring  and  wickedness  this  man  was  a  match  for 
her ;  and  she  only  sighed  that  he  should  be  noble  and  rich 
enough,  and  that  then  she  might  make  him  her  own.  For 
he  dazzled  her  imagination  with  stories  of  great  leaders  of 
the  day,  the  honors  they  won,  and  the  wealth  they  obtained. 
^  Think  of  Wallenstein,'  said  he,  '  but  a  humble  page  in  a 
lady's  house  ;  a  prince  now,  and  almost  a  sovereign.  Tilly 
was  but  a  portionless  Flemish  cadet;  and  think  of  the 
plunder  of  Magdeburg.' 

" '  I  wish  I  had  shared  it,'  said  Angelica. 

"  '  What !  and  your  father  a  Protestant  ?  ' 

" '  Psha ! '  replied  the  girl.  At  which  Herr  Wolfgang  and 
her  father  would  burst  into  a  hoarse  laugh,  and  swear,  with 
loud  oaths,  that  she  deserved  to  be  a  queen ;  and  would  so 
drink  her  grace's  health  in  many  a  bumper.  And  then 
they  would  fall  to  the  dice  again;  and  Signor  Wolfgang 
would  win  the  last  crown-piece  in  the  purse  of  either  father 
or  daughter,  and  at  midnight  would  take  his  leave.  And  a 
wonder  was,  that  no  one  knew  whence  he  came  or  how  he 
left  the  castle ;  for  the  sentry  at  the  gate  never  saw  him 
pass  or  enter. 

"  He  would  laugh  when  asked  how.  '  Psha ! '  he  would 
say,  '  I  am  all  mystery  ;  and  I  will  tell,  as  a  secret,  that  wher 
I  come  or  go  I  turn  myself  into  a  bird,  and  fly  in  and  out.' 

"And  so,  though  he  could  not  write  his  name,  and  hacA 
no  more  manners  than  a  trooper,  and  though  he  won  every 
penny  of  Angelica's  money  from  her,  the  girl  had  a  greater 
respect  and  terror  for  him  than  for  any  man  alive ;  and  he 
made  more  way  in  her  heart  in  a  fortnight  than  many  a 
sighing  lover  would  do  in  ten  years. 

"Presently,  Max  returned  from  his  visit  to  the  country*, 
and  Angelica  began  to  make  comparisons  between  his  calm, 
cold,  stately,  sneering  manner  and  the  honest  daring  of 
Herr  Wolfgang  his   friend.     '  It  is   a  pity,'  thought  she. 


THE  '5    WIFE.  313 

'that  he  should  have  the  fine  estate  who  could  live  on  a 
book  and  a  crust.  If  Herr  Wolfgang  had  flax's  wealth,  he 
would  spend  it  like  a  prince,  and  his  wife  would  be  the 
first  lady  in  Germany.' 

"Max  came  to  invite  Angelica  to  his  castle  of  Waldberg ; 
it  was  prepared  to  receive  her  as  to  receive  a  sovereign. 
She  had  never  seen  anything  more  stately  than  the  gardens, 
or  more  costly  than  the  furniture ;  and  the  lackeys  in 
Max's  livery  were  more  numerous  and  more  splendid  than 
those  who  waited  on  the  duke  himself.  He  took  her  over 
his  farms  and  villages  ;  it  was  a  two-days'  journey.  He 
showed  her  his  stores  of  plate,  and  his  cellars,  the  innu- 
merable horses  in  the  stables,  and  flocks  and  cattle  in  the 
fields.  As  she  saw  all  these  treasures,  her  heart  grew 
colder  towards  Wolfgang;  and  she  began  to  think  that 
Max  would  be  a  better  husband  for  her.  But  Herr  Wolf- 
gang did  not  seem  much  cast  down,  though  she  bestowed 
scarce  a  word  upon  him  all  day. 

" '  Would  you  take  these  lands  and  their  lord,  lady  fair  ? ' 
whispered  ]\Iax  to  Angelica,  as  they  were  riding  home. 

" '  That  would  I  ! '  cried  she,  smiling  in  triumph ;  and 
holding  out  her  hand  to  ^lax,  who,  kissing  it  very  respect- 
fully, never  quitted  her  side  that  day. 

"  She  had  now  only  frowns  for  Herr  Wolfgang,  to  whom 
she  had  been  so  gracious  hitherto ;  and  at  supper  that  day, 
or  at  play  afterwards,  she  scarce  deigned  to  say  a  word  to 
him.  But  he  laughed,  and  shouted,  and  drank  his  wine  as 
before.  They  played  deep ;  but  Max,  the  most  magnificent 
of  hosts,  had  always  a  casket  filled  with  gold  by  the  side 
of  Angelica ;  who,  therefore,  little  cared  to  lose. 

"  The  next  day  she  spent  in  going  over  the  treasury  of 
the  castle,  and  the  various  chambers  in  it.  There  was  one 
room  which  she  passed,  but  did  not  enter.  'That  was 
Ernst's  room,'  said  ^Max,  looking  very  gloomy.  '  My  lord, 
what  a  frown  ! '  said  Angelica  ;  '  can  I  bear  a  husband  who 
frowns  so  ? '  and  quickly  passed  into  another  chamber. 
At  the  end  of  the  day  came  the  dice  as  usual.  Angelica 
could  not  live  without  them.  They  played,  and  Herr  Wolf- 
gang lost  a  very  heavy  sum,  5000  crowns.  But  he  laughed, 
and  bade  Max  make  out  an  order  on  his  intendant,  and 
signed  it  with  his  name. 

" '  I  can  write  no  more  than  that.'  said  he  ;  '  but  'tis 
enough  for  a  gentleman.  To-morrow,  Sir  Max,  you  will 
give  me  my  revenge  ?  ' 


314  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

"  '  To-morrow,'  said  Max,  ^  I  will  promise  not  to  balk  you, 
and  will  play  for  any  stake  you  will.'    And  so  they  parted. 

"  The  day  after  many  lords  and  ladies  began  to  arrive, 
and  in  the  evening,  to  supper,  came  over,  from  a  hunting- 
lodge  he  had  in  the  neighborhood,  his  highness  the  heredi- 
tary prince  and  his  princess,  who  were  served  at  a  table 
alone,  Max  waiting  on  them.  '  When  this  castle  is  mine,' 
said  Angelica,  'I  will  be  princess  here,  and  my  husband 
shall  act  the  lackey  to  no  duke  in  Christendom.' 

"  Dice  and  music  were  called  as  usual.  '  Will  your  high- 
ness dance  or  play  ? '  But  his  highness  preferred  dancing, 
as  he  was  young  and  active  ;  and  her  highness  preferred 
dancing  too,  for  she  was  crooked  and  out  of  shape.  The 
prince  led  out  Lady  Angelica ;  she  had  never  looked  more 
beautiful,  and  swam  through  the  dance  in  a  royal  style 
indeed. 

"  As  they  were  dancing,  people  came  to  say,  '  The  Lord 
Max  and  Herr  Wolfgang  are  at  the  dice,  playing  very 
heavy  stakes.'  And  so  it  was ;  and  Angelica,  who  was  as 
eager  for  play  as  a  Turk  for  opium,  went  presently  to  look 
at  the  players,  around  whom  there  was  already  a  crowd 
wondering. 

"  But,  much  as  she  loved  play,  Angelica  was  frightened 
at  the  stakes  played  by  Max  and  Wolfgang  ;  for  moderate 
as  the  Lord  Max  had  been  abroad,  at  home  it  seemed  to  be 
a  point  of  honor  with  him  to  be  magnificent,  and  he  said 
he  would  refuse  no  stake  that  was  offered  to  him. 

'''Three  throws  for  10,000  crowns,'  said  Wolfgang. 
'  Make  out  an  order  for  my  intendant  if  I  lose,  and  I  will 
sign  it  with  my  mark.' 

"  '  Three  throws  for  10,000  crowns  !  —  Done  ! '  answered 
Max.  He  lost.  'The  order,  Herr  Wolfgang,  must  be  on 
my  intendant  now,  and  your  Austrian  woods  will  not  have 
to  suffer.     Give  me  my  revenge  ! ' 

"  'Twenty  thousand  crowns  against  your  farm  and  woods 
of  Avenback.' 

" '  They  are  worth  only  eighteen,  but  I  said  I  would 
refuse  you  nothing,  and  cry  done  ! '  Max  tossed,  and  lost 
the  woods  of  Avenback. 

"  '  Have  you  not  played  enough,  my  lords,  for  to-day  ? ' 
said  Angelica,  somewhat  frightened. 

" '  No ! '  shouted  Wolfgang,  with  his  roaring  laugh. 
'  No  !  in  the  devil's  name,  let  us  go  on.  I  feel  myself  in 
the  vein,  and  have   Lord  Max's  word  that  he  will  take 


THE  '5    WIFE.  315 

any  bet  of  mine.  I  will  play  you  20,000  crowns  and 
your  farm  —  my  farm  —  against  your  barony  and  village 
Weinheim.' 

"  '  Lord  :\rax,  I  entreat  —  I  command  you  not  to  play  ! ' 
cried  Angelica. 

" '  Done  ! '  said  Max.  '  Weinheim  against  the  crowns  and 
the  farm.'     He  lost  again. 

^^In  an  hour  this  unhappy  gentleman  lost  all  the  property 
that  his  forefathers  had  been  gathering  for  centuries ;  his 
houses  and  lands,  his  cattle  and  horses,  his  plate,  arms, 
and  furniture.  Laughing  and  shoutino-  Wolfsrang  still 
pressed  him. 

" '  I  have  no  more,'  said  Max,  •  you  have  my  all ;  —  but 
stay,'  said  he,  '  I  have  one  thing  more.  Here  is  my  bride, 
the  Lady  Angelica.' 

"  '  A  hundred  thousand  crowns  against  her ! '  shouted 
Wolfgang, 

"  ^  Fool ! '  said  Angelica,  turning  scornfully  on  Max,  *  do 
you  think  I  will  marry  a  beggar  ?  I  said  I  would  take  the 
lord  of  these  lands,'  added  she,  blusliing,  and  gazing  on 
Wolfgang. 

"  '  Ho  is  at  your  feet,  lady,'  said  Wolfgang,  going  down 
on  his  knee  ;  and  the  prince  at  this  moment  coming  into 
the  room,  Max  said  bitterly,  '  I  brought  you,  my  lord,  to  be 
present  at  a  marriage,  and  a  marriage  there  shall  be.  Here 
is  the  lord  of  Waldberg  who  weds  the  Lady  Angelica.' 

"'Ho!  a  chaplain  —  a  chaplain!'  called  the  prince: 
and  there  was  one  at  hand,  and  before  almost  Angelica 
could  say  '  yea '  or  '  nay,'  she  was  given  away  to  Herr 
Wolfgang,  and  the  service  was  read,  and  the  contra(;t 
signed  by  the  witnesses,  and  all  the  guests  came  to  con- 
gratulate her. 

"  '  As  the  friend  of  poor,  dead  Ernst,'  said  the  prince, 
*  I  thank  yo\i  for  not  marrying  Max.' 

*' '  The  humpbacked  Venus  congratulates  you,'  said  the 
princess,  with  a  courtesy  and  a  sneer. 

" '  I  have  lost  all,  but  have  still  a  marriage-present  to 
make  to  the  Lady  Angelica,'  said  Max ;  and  he  held  out  a 
gold  casket,  which  she  took.  It  was  that  one  in  which 
Ernst  had  kept  her  hair,  and  which  he  had  worn  at  his 
death. 

"  Angelica  flung  down  the  casket  in  a  rage. 

" '  Am  I  to  be  insulted  in  my  own  castle,'  she  said,  '  and 
on   my  own   marriage-day?     Prince — Princess  —  Max   of 


316  FITZ-BOODLE   PAPERS. 

Waldberg  —  beggar  of  Waldberg,  I  despise  and  scorn  you 
all !  When  it  will  please  you  to  leave  this  house,  you  are 
welcome.  Its  doors  will  gladly  open  to  let  you  out. 
My  Lord  Wolfgang,  I  must  trust  to  your  sword  to  revenge 
any  insults  that  may  be  passed  on  a  woman  who  is  too 
weak  to  defend  herself.' 

"  '  Any  one  who  insults  you  insults  me,'  said  Wolfgang, 
at  which  the  prince  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  ^  Coward  ! '  said  Angelica,  '  your  princedom  saves  your 
manhood.  In  any  other  country  but  your  own  you  would 
not  dare  to  act  as  you  do.'  And  so  saying,  and  looking  as 
fierce  as  a  boar  at  bay,  glaring  round  at  the  circle  of  star- 
ing courtiers,  and  forgetting  her  doubts  and  fears  in  her 
courage  and  hatred,  she  left  the  room  on  Wolfgang's 
arm. 

"  '  It  is  a  gallant  woman,  by  heaven  ! '  said  the  prince. 

"  The  old  governor  of  Udolf  had  not  been  present  at 
the  festival,  which  had  ended  so  unluckily  for  the  feast- 
giver,  Herr  Max,  and  in  Angelica's  sudden  marriage.  Cer- 
tain Anabaptist  rogues,  who  had  been  making  a  disturb- 
ance in  the  duchy,  had  been  taken  prisoners  of  late,  and 
after  having  been  tortured  and  racked  for  some  six  months, 
had  been  sentenced  to  death,  as  became  the  dogs  ;  and, 
meanwhile,  until  their  execution,  were  kept,  with  more 
than  ordinary  precautions,  in  Castle  Udolf,  for  many  of 
their  people  were  still  in  the  country,  and  thoughts  of  a 
rescue  apprehended.  The  day,  at  last,  was  fixed  for  their 
death,  —  some  three  days  after  the  sudden  wedding  of  the 
Lady  Angelica. 

"In  those  three  days  she  had  ridden  again  over  the 
farm  and  orchards  ;  she  had  examined  all  the  treasures  and 
furniture  of  her  castle  once  more.  At  night  she  feasted 
with  her  spouse,  sitting  at  the  high  table,  which  poor 
Max  had  prepared  for  the  prince  and  princess,  and  caus- 
ing the  servants  and  pages  to  serve  her  upon  bended 
knees. 

" '  Why  do  these  menials  look  so  cold  upon  their  mistress 
and  lord  ?  '  asked  she. 

"  ^  Marry,'  said  Wolfgang,  '  the  poor  devils  have  served 
the  Waldberg  family  since  they  were  born :  they  are  only 
the  more  faithful  for  their  sorrow.' 

"^I  will  have  yonder  old  scowling  seneschal  scourged  by 
the  huntsmen  to-morrow,'  said  Angelica. 

"  ^  Do  ! '  said  Wolfgang,  laughing  wildl}^ ;  '  it  will  be  an 


THE  'S    WIFE.  317 

amusement  to  you,  for  you  will  be  alone  all  to-morrow, 
sweet  Angelica.' 

"  '  And  why  alone,  sir  ?  '  said  she. 

" '  I  am  called  to  the  city  on  urgent  business.' 

" '  And  what  is  the  business  which  calls  you  away 
alone  ? ' 

"  Her  husband  would  not  say.  He  said  it  was  a  state 
secret,  which  did  not  concern  women.  She  replied  that  she 
was  no  child,  and  would  know  it.  He  only  laughed,  and 
laughed  louder  as  she  burst  into  a  fury;  and  when  she 
became  quite  white  with  rage,  and  clinched  her  little  fists, 
and  ground  her  teeth,  and  grasped  at  the  knife  she  wore  in 
her  girdle,  he  lashed  the  knife  out  of  her  hand  with  a  cut 
of  his  riding-rod,  and  bade  her  women  carry  her  away. 
'  Look  to  my  lady,'  said  he,  '  and  never  leave  her.  Her 
mother  was  mad,  and  she  has  a  touch  of  the  malady.' 
And  so  he  left  her,  and  was  off  by  break  of  day. 

"  At  break  of  day  Angelica  was  up  too ;  and  no  sooner 
had  her  husband's  liorses  left  the  court-yard  of  the  castle, 
than  she  called  for  her  own,  and  rode  towards  the  city  in 
the  direction  in  wliich  he  had  gone.  Great  crowds  of  peo- 
ple were  advancing  towards  the  town,  and  she  remembered, 
for  the  first  time,  that  an  execution  was  about  to  take  place. 
There  had  not  been  one  for  seven  years,  so  peaceable  was 
our  country  then  ;  there  was  not  even  an  executioner  in  the 
duke's  service,  for  the  old  man  had  died,  and  no  other  had 
been  found  to  take  his  place.  '  I  will  see  this  at  any  rate,' 
said  Angelica ;  for  an  execution  was  her  delight,  and  she 
remembered  every  circumstance  of  the  last  with  the 
utmost  accuracy. 

"  As  she  was  spurring  onwards  she  overtook  a  company 
of  horsemen.  It  was  the  young  prince  and  his  suite, 
among  whom  was  riding  Lord  Max,  who  took  off  his  cap 
and  saluted  her. 

"  '  jMake  way  for  the  Lady  Angelica ! '  cried  one. 

'"'Health  to  the  blushing  bride!'  said  the  prince. 
'  What,  so  soon  tired  of  billing  and  cooing  at  Wald- 
berg  ?  ' 

" '  I  hope  your  grace  found  the  beds  soft  and  the  ser- 
vants obedient,'  said  Max.  'They  had  my  parting  in- 
structions.' 

" '  They  had  the  instructions  of  their  own  mistress,'  re- 
plied Angelica.  '  I  pray  you  let  me  pass  on  to  my  hus- 
band. Lord  Wolfgang.' 


318  FITZ-BOODLE  PAPERS. 

"'The  Lord  Wolfgang  will  be  with  you  anon,'  said  the 
prince.  '  We  were  here  on  the  watch  for  you  and  him,  and 
to  pay  our  devoirs  to  the  loveliest  of  brides.' 

"  '  An  execution  is  just  such  a  festival  as  becomes  your 
ladyship.  Make  way  there  !  Place  for  the  Lady  Angelica  ! 
Here  is  the  gallery  from  which  you  can  see  the  whole  cer- 
emony. The  people  will  be  here  anon.'  And,  almost  in 
spite  of  herself,  Angelica  was  led  up  into  a  scaffold  from 
which  the  dismal  preparations  for  the  death-scene  were 
quite  visible. 

"Presently  the  trumpets  blew  from  Udolf.  The  men- 
at-arms  and  their  victims  came  winding  down  the  hills. 
Old  Dolchenblitz  leading  the  procession,  armed,  on  his  gray 
charger.  'Look  at  the  victims,'  said  some  one  by  An- 
gelica's side,  'they  are  as  calm  as  if  they  were  going  to  a 
feast.'  '  See,  here  comes  the  masked  executioner,'  said 
another,  '  who  bought  his  life  upon  these  terms.' 

"  '  He  is  a  noble,'  whispered  Max  to  Angelica,  '  and  he  is 
the  greatest  swordsman  in  Europe.'  Angelica  did  not 
reply,  but  trembled  very  much. 

"  Singing  their  psalms,  the  Anabaptists  mounted  the 
scaffold.  The  first  took  his  place  in  the  chair,  and  the  ex- 
ecutioner did  his  terrible  work.  'Here  is  the  head  of  a 
traitor,'  said  the  executioner. 

'"You  recognize  your  husband's  voice,  noble  Lady  An- 
gelica,' said  Max. 

"  She  gave  a  loud  scream  and  fell  down  as  if  shot.  The 
people  were  too  much  excited  by  the  spectacle  to  listen  to 
her  scream.  The  rest  of  the  executions  went  on  ;  but  of 
these  she  saw  nothing.  She  was  carried  home  to  Udolf 
raving  mad.  And  so  it  was  that  Max  of  Waldberg  re- 
venged his  brother's  death.  They  say  he  was  never  the 
same  man  afterwards,  and  repented  bitterly  of  his  severity ; 
but  the  Princess  Ulrica  Amelia  Sophonisba  Jacquelina 
vowed  that  the  punishment  was  not  a  whit  too  severe  for 
the  traitress  who  had  dared  to  call  her  the  humpbacked 
Venus.  I  have  shortened  as  far  as  possible  the  horrors  of 
the  denoument  of  this  dismal  drama.  The  executioner  re- 
turned to  Vienna  with  a  thousand  crowns  and  all  he  had 
won  of  Angelica  in  private.  Max  gave  the  father  and  his 
unhappy  daughter  a  pension  for  their  lives ;  but  he  never 
married  himself,  and  his  estates  passed  away  into  another 
branch  of  our  family." 


THE  'S    WIFE.  319 

"  What,  are  you  connected  with  him,  Milchbrod  ?  "  said 
I,  "  and  is  the  story  true  ?  " 

"True.  The  execution  took  place  on  the  very  spot  where 
you  are  lying." 

I  jumped  up  rather  nervously.  And  here  you  have  the 
story  of  the  "  Brother's  Eevenge ;  or,  the  Executioner's 
Wife." 


ODDS   AND   ENDS. 


MEMOKIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING. 

IN     A     LETTER    TO     OLIVER     YORKE,    ESQUIRE,    BY    M.    A. 
TITMARSH. 

[Frase7'^s  Magazine,  June,  1841.] 

Paris,  May,  1841. 

Sir,  —  The  man  who  makes  the  best  salads  in  London, 
and  whom,  therefore,  we  have  facetiously  called  Sultan 
Saladin,  —  a  man  who  is  conspicious  for  his  love  and 
practice  of  all  the  polite  arts  —  music,  to  wit,  architecture, 
painting,  and  cookery  —  once  took  the  humble  personage 
who  writes  this  into  his  library,  and  laid  before  me  two  or 
three  volumes  of  manuscript  year-books,  such  as,  since  he 
began  to  travel  and  to  observe,  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
keeping. 

Every  night,  in  the  course  of  his  rambles,  his  highness 
the  sultan  (indeed,  his  port  is  sublime,  as,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  are  all  the  wines  in  his  cellar)  sets  down  with  an 
iron  pen,  and  in  the  neatest  handwriting  in  the  world,  the 
events  and  observations  of  the  day ;  with  the  same  iron 
pen  he  illuminates  the  leaf  of  his  journal  by  the  most 
faithful  and  delightful  sketches  of  the  scenery  which  he 
has  witnessed  in  the  course  of  the  four  and  twenty  hours ; 
and  if  he  has  dined  at  an  inn  or  restaurant,  gasthaus, 
posada,  albergo,  or  what  not,  invariably  inserts  into  his 
log-book  the  bill  of  fare.  The  sultan  leads  a  jolly  life  —  a 
tall  stalwart  man,  who  every  day  about  six  o'clock  in  Lon- 
don and  Paris,  at  two  in  Italy,  in  Germany  and  Belgium 
at  an  hour  after  noon,  feels  the  noble  calls  of  hunger 
agitating  his  lordly  bosom  (or  its  neighborhood,  that  is), 
and  replies  to  the  call  by  a  good  dinner.  Ah  !  it  is  won- 
derful to  think  how  the  healthy  and  philosophic  mind  can 

320 


MEMORIALS    OF  GORMANDIZING.  321 

accommodate  itself  in  all  cases  to  the  varying  circumstances 
of  the  time  —  how,  in  its  travels  through  the  world,  the 
liberal  and  cosmopolite  stomach  recognizes  the  national 
dinner-hour  !  Depend  upon  it  that,  in  all  countries,  nature 
has  wisely  ordained  and  suited  to  their  exigencies  the 
DISHES  OF  A  PEOPLE.  I  mean  to  say  that  olla  podrida  is 
good  in  Spain  (though  a  plateful  of  it,  eaten  in  Paris,  once 
made  me  so  dreadfully  ill  that  it  is  a  mercy  I  was  spared 
ever  to  eat  another  dinner) ;  I  mean  to  say,  and  have 
proved  it,  that  sauerkraut  is  good  in  Germany  ;  and  I  make 
no  doubt  that  whale's  blubber  is  a  very  tolerable  dish  in 
Kamtschatka,  though  I  have  never  visited  the  country. 
Cannibalism  in  the  South  Seas,  and  sheepsheadism  in 
Scotland,  are  the  only  practices  that  one  cannot,  i^erhaps, 
reconcile  with  this  rule  —  at  least,  whatever  a  man's  private 
opinions  may  be,  the  decencies  of  society  oblige  him  to 
eschew  the  expression  of  them  upon  subjects  which  the 
national  prejudice  has  precluded  from  free  discussion. 

Well,  after  looking  through  three  or  four  of  Saladin's 
volumes,  I  grew  so  charmed  with  them,  that  I  used  to  come 
back  every  day  and  stud}*  them.  I  declare  there  are  bills 
of  fare  in  those  books  over  which  I  have  cried ;  and  the 
reading  of  them,  especially  about  an  hour  before  dinner, 
has  made  me  so  ferociously  hungr}-,  that,  in  the  first  place, 
the  sultan  (a  kind-hearted  generous  man,  as  every  man  is 
who  loves  his  meals)  could  not  help  inviting  me  to  take 
potluck  with  him ;  and,  secondly,  I  could  eat  twice  as  much 
as  upon  common  occasions,  though  my  appetite  is  always 
good. 

Lying  awake,  then,  of  nights,  or  wandering  solitary 
abroad  on  wide  commons,  or  by  the  side  of  silent  rivers,  or 
at  church  when  Dr.  Snufflem  was  preaching  his  favorite 
sermon,  or  stretched  on  the  flat  of  my  back  smoking  a 
cigar  at  the  club  when  X  was  talking  of  the  corn-laAvs,  or 
Y  was  describing  that  famous  run  the}'  had  with  the  Z 
hounds  —  at  all  periods,  I  say,  favorable  to  self-examina- 
tion, those  bills  of  fare  have  come  into  my  mind,  and  often 
and  often  I  have  thought  them  over.  '•  Titmarsh,"  I  have 
said  to  myself.  ''  if  ever  you  travel  again,  do  as  the  sultan 
has  done,  and  keej)  your  dinner-hills.  They  are  always 
pleasant  to  look  over ;  they  always  will  recall  happy  hours 
and  actions,  be  you  ever  so  hard  pushed  for  a  dinner,  and 
fain  to  put  up  with  an  onion  and  a  crust ;  of  the  past  fate 
cannot    deprive    3-ou.       Yesterday    is    the    philosopher's 


322  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

property  ;  and,  by  thinking  of  it  and  using  it  to  advantage, 
he  may  gayly  go  through  to-morrow,  doubtful  and  dismal 
though  it  be.  Try  this  lamb  stuffed  with  pistachio-nuts  ; 
anotlier  handful  of  this  pillau.  Ho,  you  rascals !  bring 
round  the  sherbet  there,  and  never  spare  the  jars  of  wine 

—  'tis  true  Persian,  on  the  honor  of  a  Barmecide  ! "  Is 
not  that  dinner  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights  "  a  right  good 
dinner  ?  Would  you  have  had  Bedreddin  to  refuse  and 
turn  sulky  at  the  windy  repast,  or  to  sit  down  grinning  in 
the  face  of  his  grave  entertainer,  and  gayly  take  what 
came  ?  Eemember  what  came  of  the  honest  fellow's  phil- 
osophy. He  slapped  the  grim  old  prince  in  the  face ;  and 
the  grim  old  prince,  who  had  invited  him  but  to  laugh  at 
him,  did  presently  order  a  real  and  substantial  repast  to  be 
set  before  him  —  great  pyramids  of  smoking  rice  and 
pillau  (a  good  pillau  is  one  of  the  best  dishes  in  the  world), 
savory  kids,  snow-cooled  sherbets,  luscious  wine  of  Shiraz  ; 
with  an  accompaniment  of  moon-faced  beauties  from  the 
harem,  no  doubt,  dancing,  singing,  and  smiling  in  the  most 
ravishing  manner.  Thus  should  we,  my  dear  friends,  laugh 
at  Fate's  beard,  as  we  confront  him  —  thus  should  we,  if 
the  old  monster  be  insolent,  fall  to  and  box  his  ears.  He 
has  a  spice  of  humor  in  his  composition ;  and  be  sure  he 
will  be  tickled  by  such  conduct. 

Some  months  ago,  when  the  expectation  of  war  between 
England  and  France  grew  to  be  so  strong,  and  there  was 
such  a  talk  of  mobilizing  national  guards,  and  arming  three 
or  four  hundred  thousand  more  French  soldiers  —  when 
such  ferocious  yells  of  hatred  against  perfidious  Albion 
were  uttered  by  the  liberal  French  press,  that  I  did  really 
believe  the  rupture  between  the  two  countries  was  about 
immediately  to  take  place  ;  being  seriously  alarmed,  I  set 
off  for  Paris  at  once.  My  good  sir,  what  could  we  do  with- 
out our  Paris  ?  I  came  here  first  in  1815  (when  the  Duke 
and  I  were  a  good  deal  remarked  by  the  inhabitants)  ;  I 
proposed  but  to  stay  a  week ;  stopped  three  months,  and 
have  returned  every  year  since.  There  is  something  fatal 
in  the  place  —  a  charm  about  it  —  a  wicked  one  very  likely 

—  but  it  acts  on  us  all ;  and  perpetually  the  old  Paris  man 
comes  hieing  back  to  his  quarters  again,  and  is  to  be  found, 
as  usual,  sunning  himself  in  the  Eue  de  la  Paix.  Painters, 
princes,  gourmands,  officers  on  half-pay  —  serious  old  ladies 
even  acknowledge  the  attraction  of  the  place  —  are  more 
at  ease  here  than  in  any  other  place  in  Europe  ;  and  back 


MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDIZING.  323 

they  come,  and  are  to  be  found  sooner  or  later  occupying 
their  old  haunts. 

My  darling  city  improves  too,  with  each  visit,  and  has 
some  new  palace,  or  church,  or  statue,  or  other  gimcrack, 
to  greet  your  eyes  withal.  A  few  years  since,  and  lo  !  on 
the  column  of  the  Place  Vendome,  instead  of  the  shabby, 
tri-colored  rag,  shone  the  bronze  statue  of  Napoleon.  Then 
came  the  famous  triumphal  arch ;  a  noble  building  indeed  ! 
—  how  stately  and  white,  and  beautiful  and  strong,  it  seems 
to  dominate  over  the  whole  city  !  Next  was  the  obelisk  ;  a 
huge  bustle  and  festival  being  made  to  welcome  it  to  the 
city.  Then  came  the  fair  asphaltum  terraces  round  about 
the  obelisk ;  then  the  fountains  to  decorate  the  terraces.  I 
have  scarcely  been  twelve  months  absent,  and  behold  they 
have  gilded  all  the  Naiads  and  Tritons  ;  they  have  clapped 
a  huge  fountain  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Champs  Elysees  — 
a  great,  glittering,  frothing  fountain,  that  to  the  poetic  eye 
looks  like  an  enormous  shaving-brush ;  and  all  down  the 
avenue  they  have  pLaced  hundreds  of  gilded  flaring  gas- 
lamps,  that  make  this  gayest  walk  in  the  world  look  gayer 
still  than  ever.  But  a  truce  to  such  descriptions,  which 
might  carry  one  far,  very  far,  from  the  object  proposed  in 
this  paper. 

I  simply  wish  to  introduce  to  public  notice  a  brief  din- 
ner-journal. It  has  been  written  with  the  utmost  honesty 
and  simplicity  of  purpose  ;  and  exhibits  a  picture  or  table 
of  the  development  of  the  human  mind  under  a  series  of 
gastronomic  experiments,  diversified  in  their  nature,  and 
diversifled,  consequentl}',  in  their  effects.  A  man  in  Lon- 
don has  not,  for  the  most  part,  the  opportunity  to  make 
these  experiments.  You  are  a  family  man,  let  us  presume, 
and  you  live  in  that  metropolis  for  half  a  century.  You 
have  on  Sunday,  say,  a  leg  of  mutton  and  potatoes  for  din- 
ner. On  ^Monday  you  have  cold  mutton  and  potatoes.  On 
Tuesday  hashed  mutton  and  potatoes ;  the  hashed  mutton 
being  flavored  with  little  damp  triangular  pieces  of  toast, 
which  always  surround  that  charming  dish.  Well,  on 
Wednesday,  the  mutton  ended,  you  have  beef :  the  beef 
undergoes  the  same  alternations  of  cookery,  and  disappears. 
Your  life  presents  a  succession  of  joints,  varied  every  now 
and  then  by  a  bit  of  fish  and  some  poultry.  You  drink  three 
glasses  of  a  brandyfied  liquor  called  sherry  at  dinner ;  your 
excellent  lady  imbibes  one.  When  she  has  had  her  glass 
of  port  after  dinner,  she  goes  upstairs  with  the  children. 


324  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

and  you  fall  asleep  in  your  arm-chair.  Some  of  the  most 
pure  and  precious  enjoyments  of  life  are  unknown  to  you. 
You  eat  and  drink,  but  you  do  not  know  the  art  of  eating 
and  drinking ;  nay,  most  probably  you  despise  those  who 
do.  "  Give  me  a  slice  of  meat/'  say  you,  very  likely,  "  and 
a  fig  for  your  gourmands."  You  fancy  it  is  very  virtuous 
and  manly  all  this.  Nonsense,  my  good  sir ;  you  are  indif- 
ferent because  you  are  ignorant,  because  your  life  is  passed 
in  a  narrow  circle  of  ideas,  and  because  you  are  bigotedly 
blind  and  pompously  callous  to  the  beauties  and  excellen- 
ces beyond  you. 

Sir,  RESPECT  YOUR  DINNER  ;  idolizc  it,  enjoy  it  properly. 
You  will  be  by  many  hours  in  the  week,  many  weeks  in 
the  year,  and  many  years  in  your  life  the  happier  if  you 
do. 

Don't  tell  us  that  it  is  not  worthy  of  a  man.  All  a  man's 
senses  are  worthy  of  employment,  and  should  be  cultivated 
as  a  duty.  The  senses  are  the  arts.  What  glorious  feasts 
does  Nature  prepare  for  your  eye  in  animal  form,  in  land- 
scape, and  painting  !  Are  you  to  put  out  your  eyes  and 
not  see  ?  What  royal  dishes  of  melody  does  her  bounty 
provide  for  you  in  the  shape  of  poetry,  music,  whether 
windy  or  wiry,  notes  of  the  human  voice,  or  ravishing  song 
of  birds  !  Are  you  to  stuff  your  ears  with  cotton,  and  vow 
that  the  sense  of  hearing  is  unmanly  ? — you  obstinate 
dolt  you !  No,  surely ;  nor  must  you  be  so  absurd  as  to 
fancy  that  the  art  of  eating  is  in  any  way  less  worthy  than 
the  other  two.  You  like  your  dinner,  man ;  never  be 
ashamed  to  say  so.  If  you  don't  like  your  victuals,  pass 
on  to  the  next  article ;  but  remember  that  every  man  who 
has  been  worth  a  fig  in  this  world,  as  poet,  painter,  or 
musician,  has  had  a  good  appetite  and  a  good  taste.  Ah, 
what  a  poet  Byron  would  have  been  had  he  taken  his  meals 
properly,  and  allowed  himself  to  grow  fat  —  if  Nature  in- 
tended him  to  grow  fat  —  and  not  have  physicked  his 
intellect  with  wretched  opium  pills  and  acrid  vinegar,  that 
sent  his  principles  to  sleep,  and  turned  his  feelings  sour ! 
If  that  man  had  respected  his  dinner,  he  never  would  have 
written  "  Don  Juan." 

AUons  done  !  enough  sermonizing  ;  let  us  sit  down  and 
fall  to  at  once. 

I  dined  soon  after  my  arrival  at  a  very  pleasant  Paris 
club,  where  daily  is  provided  a  dinner  for  ten  persons,  that 
is  universally  reported  to  be  excellent.     Five  men  in  Eng- 


MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDIZING. 


325 


land  would  have  consumed  the  same  amount  of  victuals,  as 
you  will  see  by  the  bills  of  fare :  — 


A  beef  with  cairols 
and  vegetables,  very 
good; 


removed  by 


A  brace  of  roast 
pheasants. 


Soupe,  puree 
aux    croutons. 


Poulets  a  la  Marensfo : 


removed  by 


Cardons  a  la  moelle. 


Dessert  of  cheese,  pears,  and  Fontainebleau  grapes. 
Bordeaux  (red)  and  excellent  Chablis  at  discretion. 

This  dinner  was  very  nicely  served.  A  venerable  mattre 
d' hotel  in  black,  cutting  up  neatly  the  dishes  on  a  trencher 
at  the  side-table,  and  several  waiters  attending  in  green 
coats,  red  plush  tights,  and  their  hair  curled.  There  was 
a  great  quantity  of  light  in  the  room  ;  some  handsome 
pieces  of  plated  ware  ;  the  pheasants  came  in  with  their 
tails  to  their  backs  ;  and  the  smart  waiters,  with  their 
hair  dressed  and  parted  down  the  middle,  gave  a  pleasant, 
lively,  stylish  appearanr-e  to  the  whole  affair. 

Now,  I  certainly  dined  (by  the  way,  I  must  not  forget  to 
mention  that  we  had  with  the  beef  some  boiled  kidney 
potatoes,  very  neatly  dished  up  in  a  napkin)  —  I  certainly 
dined,  I  say ;  and  half  an  hour  afterwards  felt,  perhaps, 
more  at  my  ease  than  I  should  have  done  had  I  consulted 
my  own  inclinations,  and  devoured  twice  the  quantity  that 
on  this  occasion  came  to  my  share.  But  I  would  rather,  as 
a  man  not  caring  for  appearances,  dine,  as  a  general  rule, 
off  a  beefsteak  for  two  at  the  Cafe  Foy,  than  sit  down  to 
take  a  tenth  part  of  such  a  meal  every  day.  There  was 
only  one  man  at  the  table  besides  your  humble  servant 
who  did  not  put  water  into  his  wine  ;  and  he  —  I  mean  the 
other  —  was  observed  by  his  friends,  who  exclaimed,  "  Com- 
ment !  vous  buvez  sec,"  as  if  to  do  so  was  a  wonder. 
The  consequence  was,  that  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  wine 
served  for  the  whole  ten  of  us  ;  and  the  guests,  having 
despatched  their  dinner  in  an  hour,  skipped  lightly  away 
from  it,  did  not  stay  to  ruminate,  and  to  feel  uneasy,  and 
to  fiddle  about  the  last  and  penultimate  waistcoat  button, 
as  we  do  after  a  house-dinner  at  an  English  club.     What 


326  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

was  it  that  made  the  charm  of  this  dinner  ?  —  for  pleasant 
it  was.  It  was  the  neat  and  comfortable  manner  in  which 
it  was  served ;  the  pheasant-tails  had  a  considerable  effect ; 
that  snowy  napkin,  coquettishly  arranged  round  the  kid- 
neys, gave  them  a  distingue  air ;  the  light  and  glittering 
service  gave  an  appearance  of  plenty  and  hospitality  that 
sent  everybody  away  contented. 

I  put  down  this  dinner  just  to  show  English  and  Scotch 
housekeepers  what  may  be  done,  and  for  what  price.     Say, 

s.  d. 
Soup  and  fresh  bread,  I      .             ,  2    fi 

Beef  and  carrots  ^  pnme  cost z    b 

Fowls  and  sauce 3    6 

Pheasants  (hens) 5    0 

Grapes,  pears,  cheese,  vegetables 3    0 

14  0 
For  fifteenpence  'par  tete  a  company  of  ten  persons  may 
have  a  dinner  set  before  them,  —  nay,  and  be  made  to 
fancy  that  they  dine  well,  provided  the  service  is  hand- 
somely arranged,  that  you  have  a  good  stock  of  side-dishes, 
etc.,  in  your  plate-chest,  and  don't  spare  the  spermaceti. 

As  for  the  wine,  that  depends  on  yourself.  Always  be 
crying  out  to  your  friends,  "  Mr.  So-and-so,  I  don't  drink 
myself,  but  pray  pass  the  bottle.  Tomkins,  my  boy,  help 
your  neighbor,  and  never  mind  me.  What !  Hopkins,  are 
there  two  of  us  on  the  doctor's  list  ?  Pass  the  wine  ; 
Smith  I'm  sure  won't  refuse  it ; "  and  so  on.  A  very  good 
plan  is  to  have  the  butler  (or  the  fellow  in  the  white  waist- 
coat who  "  behaves  as  sich " )  pour  out  the  wine  when 
wanted  (in  half-glasses,  of  course),  and  to  make  a  deuced 
great  noise  and  shouting,  "John,  John,  why  the  devil,  sir, 
don't  you  help  Mr.  Simkins  to  another  glass  of  wine  ?  " 
If  you  point  out  Simkins  once  or  twice  in  this  way,  depend 
upon  it,  he  won't  drink  a  great  quantity  of  j^our  liquor. 
You  may  thus  keep  your  friends  from  being  dangerous,  by 
a  thousand  innocent  manoeuvres  ;  and,  as  I  have  said  before, 
you  may  very  probably  make  them  believe  that  they  have 
had  a  famous  dinner.  There  was  only  one  man  in  our 
company  of  ten  the  other  day  who  ever  thought  he  had 
not  dined ;  and  what  was  he  ?  a  foreigner,  —  a  man  of  a 
discontented,  inquiring  spirit,  always  carping  at  things, 
and  never  satisfied. 

Well,  next  day  I  dined  au  cinqid^me  with  a  family  (of 
Irish  extraction,  by  the  way),  and  what  do  you  think  was 
our  dinner  for  six  persons  ?     Why,  simply, 


MEMORIALS   OF  GORMANDIZIXG.  327 

Nine  dozen  Ostend  oysters; 
Soup  a  la  mulligatawny; 
Boiled  turkey,  with  celery  sauce; 
Saddle  of  mutton  roti. 

Removes:  Plompoiiding;  croute  de  macaroni. 
Yin:   Beaune  ordinaire,  volnay,  bordeaux,  champagne, 
eau  chaude,  cognac. 

I  forget  the  dessert.  Alas  I  in  moments  of  prosperity 
and  plent}-,  one  is  often  forgetful :  I  remember  the  dessert 
at  the  Cercle  well  enough. 

A  person  whom  they  call  in  this  country  an  illustration 
litteraire  —  the  editor  of  a  newspaper,  in  fact  —  with  a  very 
pretty  wife,  were  of  the  party,  and  looked  at  the  dinner 
with  a  great  deal  of  good-humored  superiority.  I  declare, 
upon  my  honor,  that  1  helped  both  the  illustration  and  his 
lady  twice  to  saddle  of  mutton ;  and  as  for  the  turkey  and 
celery  sauce,  you  should  have  seen  how  our  host  dispensed 
it  to  them  !  They  ate  the  oysters,  they  ate  the  soup 
("Diable  I  mais  il  est  poivre  I "  said  the  illustration,  with 
tears  in-  his  eyes),  they  ate  the  turkey,  they  ate  the  mut- 
ton, they  ate  the  pudding  ;  and  what  did  our  hostess  say  ? 
Why,  casting  down  her  eyes  gently,  and  with  the  modest- 
est  air  in  the  world,  she  said,  —  "  There  is  such  a  beautiful 
piece  of  cold  beef  in  the  larder ;  do  somebody  ask  for  a 
little  slice  of  it." 

Heaven  bless  her  for  that  speech  !  I  loved  and  respected 
her  for  it ;  it  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  A  man  who 
could  sneer  at  such  a 'sentiment  could  have  neither  heart 
nor  good  breeding.     Don't  you  see  that  it  shows 

Siraplicity, 
Modesty, 
Hospitality  ? 

Put  these  against 

Waiters  with  their  hair  curled. 
Pheasants  roasted  with  their  tails  on, 
A  dozen  spermaceti  candles. 

Add  them  up.  I  say,  oh  candid  reader,  and  answer  in  the 
sum  of  human  happiness,  which  of  the  two  accounts  makes 
the  better  figure  ? 

I  declare.  I  know  few  things  more  affecting  than  that 
little  question  about  the  cold  beef;  and,  considering  calmly 
our  national  characteristics,  balancing  in  the  scale  of  quiet 
thought  our  defects  and  our  merits,  am  daily  more  inclined 


328  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

to  believe  that  there  is  something  in  the  race  of  Britons 
which  renders  them  usually  superior  to  the  French  family. 
This  is  but  one  of  the  traits  of  English  character  that  has 
been  occasioned  by  the  use  of  roast  beef. 

It  is  an  immense  question,  that  of  diet.  Look  at  the  two 
bills  of  fare  just  set  down ;  the  relative  consumption  of 
ten  animals  and  six.  What  a  profound  physical  and 
moral  difference  may  we  trace  here  !  How  distinct,  from 
the  cradle  upwards,  must  have  been  the  thoughts,  feelings, 
education  of  the  parties  who  ordered  those  two  dinners ! 
It  is  a  fact  which  does  not  admit  of  a  question,  that  the 
French  are  beginning,  since  so  many  English  have  come 
among  them,  to  use  beef  much  more  profusely.  Everybody 
at  the  restaurateur's  orders  beefsteak  and  pommes.  Will 
the  national  character  slowly  undergo  a  change  under  the 
influence  of  this  dish  ?  Will  the  French  be  more  simple  ? 
broader  in  the  shoulders  ?  less  inclined  to  brag  about  mili- 
tary glory  and  such  humbug  ?  All  this  in  the  dark  vista 
of  futurity  the  spectator  may  fancy  is  visible  to  him,  and 
the  philanthropist  cannot  but  applaud  the  change.  This 
brings  me  naturally  to  the  consideration  of  the  manner  of 
dressing  beefsteaks  in  this  country,  and  of  the  merit  of 
that  manner. 

I  dined  on  a  Saturday  at  the  Cafe  Foy,  on  the  Boulevard, 
in  a  private  room,  with  a  friend.     We  had 

Potage  julienne,  with  a  little  puree  in  it; 

Two  entrecotes  aux  epinards; 

One  perdreau  truffe ; 

One  fromage  roquefort; 

A  bottle  of  nuits  with  the  beef; 

A  bottle  of  sauterne  with  the  partridge. 

And  perhaps  a  glass  of  punch,  with  a  cigar,  afterwards : 
but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  insertion  of  the 
puree  into  the  julienne  was  not  of  my  recommending ;  and 
if  this  junction  is  effected  at  all,  the  operation  should  be 
performed  with  the  greatest  care.  If  you  put  too  much 
puree,  both  soups  are  infallibly  spoiled.  A  much  better 
plan  it  is  to  have  your  julienne  by  itself,  though  I  will  not 
enlarge  on  this  point,  as  the  excellent  friend  with  whom  I 
dined  may  chance  to  see  this  notice,  and  may  be  hurt  at 
the  renewal  in  print  of  a  dispute  which  caused  a  good  deal 
of  pain  to  both  of  us.  By  the  way,  we  had  half  a  dozen 
sardines  while  the  dinner  was  getting  ready,  eating  them 


MEMORIALS   OF  GORMANDIZING.  329 

with  delicious  bread  and  butter,  for  which  this  place  is 
famous.     Then  followed  the  soup.     Why  the  deuce  would 

he  have  the  pu but  never  mind.     After  the  soup,  we 

had  what  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  the  very  best  beefsteak 
I  ever  ate  in  my  life.  By  the  shade  of  Heliogabalus  !  as  I 
write  about  it  now,  a  w- eek  after  I  have  eaten  it,  the  old, 
rich,  sweet,  piquant,  juicy  taste  comes  smacking  on  my  lips 
again ;  and  I  feel  something  of  that  exquisite  sensation  I 
then  had.  I  am  ashamed  of  the  delight  which  the  eating 
of  that  piece  of  meat  caused  me.  G and  I  had  quar- 
relled about  the  soup  (I  said  so,  and  don't  wish  to  return 
to  the  subject)  ;  but  when  we  began  on  the  steak,  we  looked 
at  each  other,  and  loved  each  other.  We  did  not  speak,  — 
our  hearts  were  too  full  for  that ;  but  we  took  a  bit,  and 
laid  down  our  forks,  and  looked  at  one  another,  and  under- 
stood each  other.  There  were  no  two  individuals  on  this 
wide  earth,  —  no  two  lovers  billing  in  the  shade,  —  no 
mother  clasping  baby  to  her  heart,  more  supremely  happy 
than  we.  Every  now  and  then  we  had  a  glass  of  honest, 
firm,  generous  Burgundy,  that  nobly  supported  the  meat. 
As  you  may  fancy,  we  did  not  leave  a  single  morsel  of  the 
steak ;  but  when  it  was  done,  we  put  bits  of  bread  into  the 
silver  dish,  and  wistfully  sopped  up  the  gravy.  I  suppose 
I  shall  never  in  this  world  taste  anything  so  good  again. 
But  wliat  then  ?  What  if  I  did  like  it  excessively  ?  Was 
my  liking  unjust  or  unmanly  ?  Is  my  regret  now  puling 
or  unworthy?  No.  '^Laudo  manentem ! "  as  Titmouse 
says.  When  it  is  eaten,  I  resign  myself,  and  can  eat  a 
two-franc  dinner  at  Richard's  without  ill  humor  and  with- 
out a  pang. 

Any  dispute  about  the  relative  excellence  of  the  beef- 
steak cut  from  the  filet,  as  is  usual  in  France,  and  of  the 
entrecote,  must  henceforth  be  idle  and  absurd.  Whenever, 
my  dear  young  friend,  you  go  to  Paris,  call  at  once  for  the 
entrecote;  the  filet  in  comparison  to  it  is  a  ^ooi  fade  lady's 
meat.  What  folly,  by  the  way,  is  that  in  England  which 
induces  us  to  attach  an  estimation  to  the  part  of  the  sirloin 
that  is  called  the  Sunday  side,  —  poor,  tender,  stringy  stuff, 
not  comparable  to  the  manly  meat  on  the  other  side,  hand- 
somely garnished  with  crisp  fat,  and  with  a  layer  of  horn ! 
Give  the  Sunday  side  to  misses  and  ladies'  maids,  for  men 
be  the  ^Eondaj^'s  side,  or,  better  still,  a  thousand  times 
more  succulent  and  full  of  flavor — the  ribs  of  beef  This 
is  the  meat  I  would  eat  were  I  going  to  do  battle  with  any 


330  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

mortal  foe.  Fancy  a  hundred  thousand  Englishmen,  after 
a  meal  of  stalwart  beef  ribs,  encountering  a  hundred  thou- 
sand Frenchmen  who  had  partaken  of  a  trifling  collation 
of  soups,  turnips,  carrots,  onions,  and  Gruyere  cheese. 
Would  it  be  manly  to  engage  at  such  odds  ?     I  say,  no. 

Passing  by  Very's  one  day,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  cook  with 
a  spatula,  thumping  a  poor  beefsteak  with  all  his  might. 
Tliis  is  not  onl}^  a  horrible  cruelty,  but  an  error.  They  not 
only  beat  the  beef,  moreover,  but  they  soak  it  in  oil. 
Absurd,  disgusting  barbarity  !  Beef  so  beaten  loses  its 
natural  spirit;  it  is  too  noble  for  corporal  punishment. 
You  may  by  these  tortures  and  artifices  make  it  soft  and 
greasy,  but  tender  and  juicy  never. 

The  landlord  of  the  Cafe  Foy  (I  have  received  no  sort  of 
consideration  from  him)  knows  this  truth  full  well,  and 
follows  the  simple  honest  plan ;  first,  to  have  good  meat, 
and  next  to  hang  it  a  long  time.  I  have  instructed  him 
how  to  do  the  steaks  to  a  turn,  not  raw,  horribly  livid  and 
blue  in  the  midst,  as  I  have  seen  great  flaps  of  meat  (what 
a  shame  to  think  of  our  flne  meat  Vicing  so  treated !),  but 
cooked  all  the  way  through.  Go  to  the  Cafe  Foy  then,  ask 
for  a  BEEFSTEAK  A  LA  TiTMARSH,  and  you  will  see  what  a 
dish  will  be  set  before  you.  I  have  dwelt  upon  this  point 
at  too  much  length,  perhaps,  for  some  of  my  readers ;  but 
it  can't  be  helped.  The  truth  is,  beef  is  my  weakness ;  and 
I  do  declare  that  I  derive  more  positive  enjoyment  from 
the  simple  viand  than  from  any  concoction  whatever  in  the 
whole  cook's  cyclopaedia. 

Always  drink  red  wine  with  beefsteaks  ;  port,  if  pos- 
sible ;  if  not,  Burgundy,  of  not  too  high  a  flavor,  —  good 
Beaune,  say.  This  fact,  which  is  very  likely  not  known  to 
many  persons  who,  forsooth,  are  too  magnificent  to  care 
about  their  meat  and  drink,  —  this  simple  fact  I  take  to  be 
worth  the  whole  price  I  shall  get  for  this  article. 

But  to  return  to  dinner.     We  were  left,  I  think,  G 

and  I,  sopping  up  the  gravy  with  bits  of  bread,  and  declar- 
ing that  no  power  on  earth  could  induce  us  to  eat  a  morsel 
more  that  day.  At  one  time,  we  thought  of  countermand- 
ing the  perdreau  aux  truffes,  that  to  my  certain  knowledge 
had  been  betruft'ed  five  days  before. 

Poor  blind  mortals  that  we  were ;  ungrateful  to  our 
appetites,  needlessly  mistrustful  and  cowardly.  A  man 
may  do  what  he  dares :  nor  does  he  know,  until  he  tries, 
what  the  honest  appetite  will  bear.     We  were  kept  waiting 


MEMORIALS    OF   GORMANDIZING.  331 

between  the  steak  and  the  partridge  some  ten  minutes  or 
so.  For  the  first  two  or  three  minutes  we  lay  back  in  our 
chairs  quite  exhausted  indeed.  Then  we  began  to  fiddle 
with  a   dish   of   toothpicks,   for  want    o£   anything   more 

savory ;  then  we  looked  out  of  the  window  ;   then  G 

got  in  a  rage,  rang  the  bell  violently,  and  asked,  "  Pourquoi 
(liable  nous  fait-on  attendre  si  lougtemps  ?  "  The  waiter 
grinned.  He  is  a  nice  good-humored  fellow,  Auguste ;  and 
I  heartily  trust  that  some  reader  of  this  may  give  him  a 
five-franc  piece  for  my  sake.  Auguste  grinned  and  disap- 
peared. 

Presently,  we  were  aware  of  an  odor  gradually  coming 
towards  us,  something  musky,  fiery,  savory,  m3^sterious,  — 
a  hot  drowsy  smell,  that  lulls  the  senses,  and  yet  inflames 
them, — the  truffes  were  coming!  Yonder  they  lie,  cav- 
erned  under  the  full  bosom  of  the  red-legged  bird.  My 
hand  trembled  as,  after  a  little  pause,  I  cut  the  animal  in 

two.     G said  I   did  not   give  him   his   share   of   the 

truffes ;  I  don't  believe  I  did.  I  spilled  some  salt  into  my 
plate,  and  a  little  cayenne  pepper  —  very  little  :  we  began, 
as  far  as  I  can  remember,  the  following  conversation:  — 

Giistavus.     Chop,  chop,  chop. 

Michael  Angelo.     Globlobloblob. 

G.     Gobble. 

M.  A.     Obble. 

G.     Here's  a  big  one. 

M.  A.  Hobgob.  What  wine  shall  we  have  ?  I  should 
like  some  champagne. 

G.     It's  bad  here.     Have  some  Sauterne. 

M.  A.     Very  well.     Hobgobglobglob,  etc. 

Auguste  (opening  the  Sauterne).  Cloo-oo-oo-oop !  The 
cork  is  out ;  he  pours  it  into  the  glass,  glock,  glock,  glock. 

Nothing  more  took  place  in  the  way  of  talk.  The  poor 
little  partridge  was  soon  a  heap  of  bones  —  a  very  little 
heap.  A  trufflesque  odor  was  left  in  the  room,  but  only  an 
odor.  Presently,  the  cheese  was  brought :  the  amber  Sau- 
terne flask  has  turned  of  a  sickly  green  hue  ;  nothing,  save 
half  a  glass  of  sediment  at  the  bottom,  remained  to  tell  of 
the  light  and  social  spirit  that  had  but  one  half-hour  before 
inhabited  the  flask.  Darkness  fell  upon  our  little  cham- 
ber; the  men  in  the  street  began  crying,  ••  Messager  !  Jour- 
nal du  Soirf"  The  bright  moon  rose  glittering  over  the 
tiles  of  the  Rue  Louis  le  Grand,  opposite,  illuminating  two 
glasses  of  punch  that  two  gentlemen  in  a  small  room  of 


332  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

the  Cafe  Foy  did  ever  and  anon  raise  to  their  lips.  Both 
were  silent ;  both  happy  ;  both  were  smoking  cigars,  —  for 
both  knew  that  the  soothing  plant  of  Cuba  is  sweeter  to 
the  philosopher  after  dinner  than  the  prattle  of  all  the 
women  in  tlie  world.  Women  —  pshaw  !  The  man  who. 
after  dinner  —  after  a  good  dinner  —  can  think  about  driv- 
ing home,  and  shaving  himself  by  candlelight,  and  induing 
a  damp  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  tight  glazed  pumps  to  show  his 
cobweb  stockings  and  set  his  feet  in  a  flame ;  and,  having 
undergone  all  this,  can  get  into  a  cold  cab,  and  drive  off  to 
No.  222  Harley  Street,  where  Mrs.  Mortimer  Smith  is  at 
home ;  where  you  take  off  your  cloak  in  a  damp  dark  back 
parlor,  called  Mr.  Smith's  study,  and  containing,  when  you 
arrive,  twenty-four  ladies'  cloaks  and  tippets,  fourteen 
hats,  two  pairs  of  clogs  (belonging  to  two  gentlemen  of  the 
Middle  Temple,  who  Avalk  for  economy,  and  think  dancing 
at  Mrs.  Mortimer  Smith's  the  height  of  enjoyment) ; — the 
man  who  can  do  all  this,  and  walk,  gracefully  smiling,  into 
Mrs.  Smith's  drawing-rooms,  where  the  brown  holland  bags 
have  been  removed  from  the  chandeliers ;  a  man  from 
Kirkman's  is  thumping  on  the  piano,  and  Mrs.  Smith  is 
standing  simpering  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  dressed  in 
red,  with  a  bird  of  paradise  in  her  turban,  a  tremulous  fan 
in  one  hand,  and  the  other  clutching  hold  of  her  little  fat 
gold  watch  and  seals; — the  man  who,  after  making  his 
bow  to  Mrs.  Smith,  can  advance  to  Miss  Jones,  in  blue 
crape,  and  lead  her  to  a  place  among  six  other  pairs  of 
solemn-looking  persons,  and  whisper  fadaises  to  her  (at 
which  she  cries,  "  Oh,  fie,  you  naughty  man !  how  can 
you  ?  "),  and  look  at  Miss  Smith's  red  shoulders  struggling 
out  of  her  gown,  and  her  mottled  elbows  that  a  pair  of 
crumpled  kid  gloves  leave  in  a  state  of  delicious  nature  ; 
and,  after  having  gone  through  certain  mysterious  quadrille 
figures  with  her,  lead  her  back  to  her  mamma,  who  has  just 
seized  a  third  glass  of  muddy  negus  from  the  black  foot- 
man;—  the  man  who  can  do  all  this  may  do  it,  and  go 
hang,  for  me !  And  many  such  men  there  be,  my  Gusta- 
vus,  in  yonder  dusky  London  city.  Be  it  ours,  my  dear 
friend,  when  tlie  day's  labor  and  repast  are  done,  to  lie  and 
ruminate  calmly  ;  to  watch  the  bland  cigar  smoke  as  it  rises 
gently  ceiling-wards ;  to  be  idle  in  body  as  well  as  mind ; 
not  to  kick  our  heels  madly  in  quadrilles,  and  puff  and 
pant  in  senseless  gallopades  :  let  us  appreciate  the  joys  of 
idleness ;  let  us  give  a  loose  to  silence  ;  and  having  enjoyed 


ii 


MEMORIALS   OF  GORMAXDIZING.  333 

this,  the  best  dessert  after  a  goodly  dinner,  at  close  of  eve, 
saunter  slowly  home. 

As  the  dinner  above  described  drew  no  less  than  three 
tive-franc  pieces  out  of  my  purse,  I  determined  to  econo- 
mize for  the  next  few  days,  and  either  to  be  invited  out  to 
dinner,  or  else  to  partake  of  some  repast  at  a  small  charge, 
such  as  one  may  have  here.  I  had  on  the  day  succeeding 
the  truffled  partridge  a  dinner  for  a  shilling ;  viz.,  — 

Bifsteck  aux  pommes  (heu  quautum  mutatus  ab  illo!) 
Galantine  de  volaille,  * 

Froinage  de  Gmyere, 

Demi-bouteille  du  vin  tres-vieux  de  Macon  on  Chablis, 
Pain  a  discreLion. 

This  dinner,  my  young  friend,  was  taken  about  half-past 
two  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  was,  in  fact,  a  breakfast,  —  a 
breakfast  taken  at  a  two-franc  house,  in  the  Eue  Haute  Vi- 
vienne  ;  it  was  certainly  a  sufficient  dinner  :  I  certainh'  was 
not  hungry  for  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  Nay,  the  wine  was 
decently  good,  as  almost  all  wine  is  in  the  morning,  if  one 
had  the  courage  or  the  power  to  drink  it.  You  see  many 
honest  English  families  marching  into  these  two-franc  eat- 
iug-liouses,  at  tive  o'clock,  and  they  fancy  they  dine  in  great 
luxury.  Keturning  to  England,  however,  they  inform  their 
friends  that  the  meat  in  France  is  not  good;  that  the  fowls 
are  very  small,  and  black  ;  the  kidneys  very  tough ;  the 
partridges  and  fruit  have  no  taste  in  them,  and  the  soup  is 
execrably  thin.  A  dinner  at  Williams's,  in  the  Old  Bailey, 
is  better  than  the  best  of  these;  and  therefore  had  the 
English  Cockney  better  remain  at  Williams's  than  judge 
the  great  nation  so  falsely. 

The  worst  of  these  two-franc  establishments  is  a  horrid 
air  of  shabby  elegance  which  distinguishes  them.  At  some 
of  them  they  will  go  the  length  of  changing  your  knife  and 
fork  with  every  dish;  the}'  have  grand  chimney-glasses,  and 
a  fine  lady  at  the  counter,  and.  fine  arabesque  paintings  on 
the  walls :  they  give  you  your  soup  in  a  battered  dish  of 
plated  ware,  which  has  served  its  best  time,  most  likely, 
in  a  first-rate  establishment,  and  comes  here  to  etalei'  its 
second-hand  splendor  amongst  amateurs  of  a  lower  grade. 
I  fancy  the  ver}'  meat  that  is  served  to  you  has  undergone 
the  same  degradation,  and  that  some  of  the  mouldy  cutlets 
that  are  offered  to  the  two-franc  epicures  lay  once  plump 
and  juicy  in  Very's  larder.     Much  better  is  the  sanded  floor 


334  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

and  the  iron  fork  !  Homely  neatness  is  the  charm  of  pov- 
erty :  elegance  should  belong  to  wealth  alone.  There  is  a 
very  decent  place  where  you  dine  for  thirty -two  sous  in  the 
Passage  Choiseul.  You  get  your  soup  in  china  bowls ;  they 
don't  change  your  knife  and  fork,  but  they  give  you  very 
fit  portions  of  meat  and  potatoes,  and  mayhap  a  herring 
with  mustard  sauce,  a  dish  of  apple  fritters,  a  dessert  of 
stewed  prunes,  and  a  pint  of  drinkable  wine,  as  I  have 
proved  only  yesterday. 

After  two  such  banyan  days,  I  allowed  myself  a  little 
feasting;  and  as  nobody  persisted  in  asking  me  to  dinner, 
I  went  off  to  the  "  Trois  Freres  "  by  myself,  and  dined  in 
that  excellent  company. 

I  would  recommend  a  man  who  is  going  to  dine  by  him- 
self here,  to  reflect  well  before  he  orders  soup  for  dinner. 

My  notion  is,  that  you  eat  as  much  after  soup  as  without 
it,  but  you  douH  eat  lu'ith  the  same  appetite. 

Especially  if  you  are  a  healthy  man,  as  I  am  —  deuced 
hungry  at  five  o'clock.  My  appetite  runs  away  with  me ; 
and  if  I  order  soup  (which  is  always  enough  for  two),  I 
invariably  swallow  the  whole  of  it ;  and  the  greater  portion 
of  my  petit  pain,  too,  before  my  second  dish  arrives. 

The  best  part  of  a  pint  of  julienne,  or  puree  k  la  Conde, 
is  very  well  for  a  man  who  has  only  one  dish  besides  to 
devour ;  but  not  for  you  and  me,  who  like  our  fish  and  our 
roti  of  game  or  meat  as  well. 

Oysters  you  may  eat.  They  do,  for  a  fact,  prepare  one 
to  go  through  the  rest  of  a  dinner  properly.  Lemon  and 
cayenne  pepper  is  the  word,  depend  on  it,  and  a  glass  of 
white  wine  braces  you  up  for  what  is  to  follow. 

French  restaurateur  dinners  are  intended,  however,  for 
two  people,  at  least ;  still  better  for  three ;  and  require  a 
good  deal  of  thought  before  you  can  arrange  them  for  one. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  recent  menu :  — 

Trois  Freres  ProveriQaux. 

/.  c. 

Pain 0  25 

Beaune  premiere 3    0 

Puree  h  la  Creci 0  75 

Turbot  aux  capres 1  75 

Quart  poulet  aux  truffes 2  25 

Champignons  a  la  Provengale 1  25 

Gelee  aux  pommes 1  25 

Cognac 0  30 

10  80 


MEMORIALS    OF  GORMAXDIZING.  335 

A  heavy  bill  for  a  single  man ;  and  a  heavy  dinner,  too ; 
for  I  have  said  before  I  have  a  great  appetite,  and  when  a 
thing  is  put  before  me  I  eat  it.  At  Brussels  I  once  ate 
fourteen  dishes ;  and  have  seen  a  lady,  with  whom  I  was  in 
love,  at  the  table  of  a  German  grand-duke,  eat  seventeen 
dishes.  This  is  a  positive,  though  disgusting  fact.  Up  to 
the  first  twelve  dishes  she  had  a  very  good  chance  of  becom- 
ing Mrs.  Titmarsh,  but  I  have  lost  sight  of  her  since. 

Well,  then,  I  say  to  you,  if  you  have  self-command 
enough  to  send  away  half  your  soup,  order  some ;  but 
you  are  a  poor  creature  if  you  do  after  all.  If  you  are  a 
man,  and  have  not  that  self-command,  don't  have  any.  The 
Frenchmen  cannot  live  without  it,  but  I  say  to  you  that 
you  are  better  than  a  Frenchman.  I  would  lay  even  money 
that  you  who  are  reading  this  are  more  tlian  five  feet  seven 
in  height,  and  weigh  eleven  stone ;  while  a  Frenchman  is 
five  feet  four,  and  does  not  weigh  nine.  The  Frenchman 
has  after  his  soup  a  dish  of  vegetables,  where  you  have 
one  of  meat.  You  are  a  different  and  superior  animal  — 
a  French-beating  animal  (the  history  of  hundreds  of  years 
has  shown  you  to  be  so) ;  you  must  have,  to  keep  up  that 
superior  weight  and  sinew,  which  is  the  secret  of  your 
superiority  —  as  for  public  institutions,  bah  !  —  you  must 
have,  I  say,  simpler,  stronger,  more  succulent  food. 

Eschew  the  soup,  then,  and  have  the  fish  up  at  once.  It 
is  the  best  to  begin  with  fish,  if  you  like  it,  as  every  epi- 
cure and  honest  man  should,  simply  boiled  or  fried  in  the 
English  fashion,  and  not  tortured  and  bullied  with  oils, 
onions,  wine,  and  herbs,  as  in  Paris  it  is  frequently  done. 

Turbot  with  lobster-sauce  is  too  much ;  turbot  a  la  Hol- 
landaise  vulgar;  sliced  potatoes  swimming  in  melted  butrer 
are  a  mean  concomitant  for  a  noble,  simple,  liberal  fish: 
turbot  with  capers  is  the  thing.  The  brisk  little  capers 
relieve  the  dulness  of  the  turbot ;  the  melted  butter  is 
rich,  bland,  and  calm  —  it  should  be,  t\i^\,  is  to  say;  not 
that  vapid  watery  mixture  that  I  see  in  London ;  not  oiled 
butter,  as  the  Hollanders  have  it,  but  melted,  with  plenty 
of  thickening  matter :  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it,  but  I 
know  it  when  it  is  good. 

They  melt  butter  well  at  the  "  Rocher  de  Cancale,"  and 
at  the  "Freres." 

Well,  this  turbot  was  very  good ;  not  so  well,  of  course, 
as  one  gets  it  in  London,  and  dried  rather  in  the  boiling; 
which  can't   be  helped,  unless   you  are  a  Lucullus  or  a 


336  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Cambaceres  of  a  man,  and  can  afford  to  order  one  for 
yourself.  This  grandeur  d'dme  is  very  rare ;  my  friend 
Tom  Willows  is  almost  the  only  man  I  know  who  possessed 

it.     Yes, ,  one  of  the  wittiest  men  in  London,  I  once 

knew  to  take  the  whole  interieur  of  a  diligence  (six  places), 
because  he  was  a  little  unwell.  Ever  since  I  have  admired 
that  man.  He  understands  true  economy  ;  a  mean  extrava- 
gant man  w^ould  have  contented  himself  with  a  single  place, 
and  been  unwell  in  consequence.  How  I  am  rambling  from 
my  subject,  however!  The  fish  was  good,  and  I  ate  up 
every  single  scrap  of  it,  sucking  the  bones  and  fins  curi- 
ously. That  is  the  deuce  of  an  appetite,  it  must  be  satis- 
fied ;  and  if  you  were  to  put  a  roast  donkey  before  me, 
with  the  promise  of  a  haunch  of  venison  afterwards,  I 
believe  I  should  eat  the  greater  part  of  the  long-eared 
animal. 

A  pint  of  puree  a  la  Creci,  a  pain  de  gruau,  a  slice  of  tur- 
bot  —  a  man  should  think  about  ordering  his  bill,  for  he 
has  had  enough  dinner;  but  no,  we  are  creatures  of  super- 
stition and  habit,  and  must  have  one  regular  course  of 
meat.  Here  comes  the  poulet  a  la  Marengo  :  I  hope  they've 
given  me  the  wing. 

No  such  thing.  The  poulet  a  la  Marengo  aux  truffes  is 
bad — too  oily  by  far;  the  truffes  are  not  of  this  year,  as 
they  should  be,  for  there  are  cartloads  in.  town  :  they  are 
poor  in  flavor,  and  have  only  been  cast  into  the  dish  a  min- 
ute before  it  was  brought  to  table,  and  what  is  the  conse- 
quence ?  They  do  not  flavor  the  meat  in  the  least ;  some 
faint  trufliesque  savor  you  may  get  as  you  are  crunching 
each  individual  root,  but  that  is  all,  and  that  all  not  worth 
the  having ;  for  as  nothing  is  finer  than  a  good  trufile,  in 
like  manner  nothing  is  meaner  than  a  bad  one.  It  is 
merely  pompous,  windy,  and  pretentious,  like  those  scraps 
of  philosojjhy  with  which  a  certain  eminent  novelist  decks 
out  his  meat. 

A  mushroom,  thought  I,  is  better  a  thousand  times  than 
these  tough  flavorless  roots.  I  finished  every  one  of  them, 
however,  and  the  fine  fat  capon's  thigh  which  they  sur- 
rounded. It  was  a  disappointment  not  to  get  a  wing,  to 
be  sure.  They  alivays  give  me  legs  ;  but,  after  all,  with  a 
little  good-humor  and  philosophy,  a  leg  of  a  fine  Mans 
capon  may  be  found  very  acceptable.  How  plump  and 
tender  the  rogue's  thigh  is  !  his  very  drumstick  is  as  fat  as 
the  calf  of  a  London  footman  ;    and  the  sinews,  which  puz- 


MEMORIALS   OF   GORMANDIZING.  337 

zle  one  so  over  the  lean  black  hen-legs  in  London,  are 
miraculously  whisked  away  from  the  limb  before  me. 
Look  at  it  now !  Half  a  dozen  cuts  with  the  knife  and 
yonder  lies  the  bone  —  white,  large,  stark  naked,  without  a 
morsel  of  flesh  left  upon  it,  solitary  in  the  midst  of  a  pool 
of  melted  butter. 

How  good  the  Burgundy  smacks  after  it !  I  alwa^'S 
drink  Burgundy  at  this  house,  and  that  not  of  the  best.  It 
is  my  firm  opinion  that  a  third-rate  Burgund}',  and  a  third- 
rate  claret  —  Beaune  and  Larose,  for  instance,  are  better 
than  the  best.  The  Bordeaux  enlivens,  the  Burgundy  in- 
vigorates ;  stronger  drink  only  inflames  ;  and  where  a  bot- 
tle of  good  Beaune  only  causes  a  man  to  feel  a  certain 
manly  warmth  of  benevolence  —  a  glow  something  like 
that  produced  by  sunshine  and  gentle  exercise — a  bottle 
of  Chambertin  will  set  all  your  frame  in  a  fever,  swell  the 
extremities,  and  cause  the  pulses  to  throb.  Chambertin 
should  never  be  handed  round  niore  than  twice  ;  and  I 
recollect  to  this  moment  the  headache  I  had  after  drinking 
a  bottle  and  a  half  of  Komanee  gelee,  for  which  this  house 
is  famous.  Somebody  else  paid  for  the  — (no  other  than 
you,  0  Gustavus  I  with  whom  I  hope  to  have  many  a  tall 
dinner  on  the  same  charges)  — but  'twas  in  our  hot  3'outh, 
ere  experience  had  taught  us  that  moderation  was  happi- 
ness, and  had  shown  us  that  it  is  absurd  to  be  guzzling 
wine  at  fifteen  francs  a  bottle. 

By  the  way,  I  may  here  mention  a  story  relating  to  some 
of  Blackwood's  men,  who  dined  at  this  very  house.  Fancy 
the  fellows  tr3^ing  claret,  which  they  voted  sour;  then 
Burgundy,  at  which  they  made  wry  faces,  and  finished  the 
evening  with  brandy  and  lunel !  This  is  what  men  call 
eating  a  French  dinner.  Willows  and  I  dined  at  the 
"Eocher,"  and  an  P^nglish  family  there  feeding  ordered  — 
mutton  chops  and  potatoes.  Why  not,  in  these  cases,  stay 
at  home  ?  Chops  are  better  chops  in  England  (the  best 
chops  in  the  world  are  to  be  had  at  the  Reform  Club)  than 
in  France.  What  could  literary  men  mean  by  ordering 
lunel  ?  I  always  rather  liked  the  descriptions  of  eating  in 
the  "  iN'octes."  They  were  gross  in  all  cases,  absurdly 
erroneous  in  many  ;  but  there  was  manliness  about  them, 
and  strong  evidence  of  a  great,  though  misdirected  and  un- 
educated, genius  for  victuals. 

^Mushrooms,  thought  I,  are  better  than  those  tasteless 
truffles,  and  so  ordered  a  dish  to  trv.     You  know  what  a 


338  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Provengale  sauce  is,  I  have  no  doubt?  —  a  rich  savory 
mixture  of  garlic  and  oil;  which,  with  a  little  cayenne 
pepper  and  salt,  impart  a  pleasant  taste  to  the  plump  little 
mushrooms,  that  can't  be  described  but  may  be  thought  of 
with  pleasure. 

The  only  point  was,  how  will  they  agree  with  me  to- 
morrow morning  ?  for  the  fact  is,  I  had  eaten  an  immense 
quantity  of  them,  and  began  to  be  afraid  !  Suppose  we  go 
and  have  a  glass  of  punch  and  a  cigar  !  Oh,  glorious  gar- 
den of  the  Palais  Royal !  your  trees  are  leafless  now,  but 
what  matters  ?  Your  alleys  are  damp,  but  what  of  that  ? 
All  the  windows  are  blazing  with  light  and  merriment ;  at 
least  two  thousand  happy  people  are  pacing  up  and  down 
the  colonnades ;  cheerful  sounds  of  money  chinking  are 
heard  as  you  pass  the  changers'  shops  ;  bustling  shouts  of 
"Gar9on!"  and  "Via,  Monsieur!"  come  from  the  swing- 
ing doors  of  the  restaurateurs.  Look  at  that  group  of  sol- 
diers gaping  at  Vefour's  window,  where  lie  lobsters,  pine- 
apples, fat  truffle-stuffed  partridges,  which  make  me  almost 
hungry  again.  I  wonder  whether  those  three  fellows  with 
mustachios  and  a  toothpick  apiece  have  had  a  dinner,  or 
only  a  toothpick.  When  the  "  Trois  Freres  "  used  to  be  on 
the  first  floor,  and  had  a  door  leading  into  the  Rue  de  Va- 
lois,  as  well  as  one  into  the  garden,  I  recollect  seeing  three 
men  with  toothpicks  mount  the  stair  from  the  street,  descend 
the  stair  into  the  garden,  and  give  themselves  as  great  airs  as 
if  they  had  dined  for  a  napoleon  a  head.  The  rogues  are 
lucky  if  they  have  had  a  sixteen-sous  dinner ;  and  the  next 
time  I  dine  abroad,  I  am  resolved  to  have  one  myself.  I 
never  understood  why  Gil  Bias  grew  so  mighty  squeamish 
in  the  affair  of  the  cat  and  the  hare.  Hare  is  best,  but  why 
should  not  cat  be  good  ? 

BeincT  on  the  subject  of  bad 'dinners,  I  may  as  well  ease 
my  mind  of  one  that  occurred  to  me  some  few  days  back. 
When  walking  in  the  Boulevard,  I  met  my  friend,  Captain 
Hopkinson,  of  the  half-pay,  looking  very  hungry,  and 
indeed  going  to  dine.  In  most  cases  one  respects  the  dic- 
tum of  a  half-pay  officer  regarding  a  dining-house.  He 
knows  as  a  general  rule  where  the  fat  of  the  land  lies,  and 
how  to  take  his  share  of  that  fat  in  the  most  economical 
manner. 

"I  tell  you  what  I  do,"  says  Hopkinson;  "I  allow  my- 
self fifteen  francs  a  week  for  dinner  (I  count  upon  being 
asked  out  twice  a  week),  and  so  have  a  three-franc  dinner 


MEMORIALS   OF  GOIIMASDIZING.  339 

at  Richard's,  where,  for  the  extra  francs,  they  give  me  an 
excellent  bottle  of  wine,  and  make  me  comfortable." 

"Why  shouldn't  they?"  I  thought.  "Here  is  a  man 
who  has  served  his  country,  and  no  doubt  knows  a  thing 
when  he  sees  it."  We  made  a  party  of  four,  therefore,  and 
went  to  the  Captain's  place  to  dine. 

We  had  a  private  room  an  second;  a  very  damp  and 
dirty  private  room  with  a  faint  odor  of  stale  punch,  and 
dingy  glasses  round  the  walls. 

We  had  a  soup  of  puree  aux  croutons ;  a  very  dingy  du- 
bious soup  indeed,  thickened,  I  fancy,  with  brown  paper, 
and  flavored  with  the  same. 

At  the  end  of  the  soup,  ^Monsieur  Landlord  came  upstairs 
very  kindly,  and  gave  us  each  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  a  gold 
snuf[-box. 

We  had  four  portions  of  anguille  a  la  Tartare,  very  good 
and  fiesh  (it  is  best  in  these  places  to  eat  freshwater  fish). 
Each  portion  was  half  the  length  of  a  man's  finger.  Dish 
one  was  despatched  in  no  time,  and  we  began  drinking  the 
famous  wine  that  our  guide  recommended.  I  have  cut  him 
ever  since.  It  was  four-sous  wine,  —  weak,  vapid,  water}^ 
stuff,  of  the  most  unsatisfactory  nature. 

We  had  four  portions  of  gigot  aux  haricots  —  four  flaps 
of  bleeding  tough  meat,  cut  unnaturally  (that  is,  with  the 
grain :  the  French  gash  the  meat  in  parallel  lines  with  the 
bone).  We  ate  these  up  as  we  might,  and  the  landlord  was 
so  good  as  to  come  up  again  and  favor  us  with  a  pinch  from 
his  gold  box. 

With  wonderful  unanimity,  as  we  were  told  the  place 
was  famous  for  civet  de  lievre,  we  ordered  civet  de  lievre 
for  four. 

It  came  up,  but  we  couldn't  —  really  we  couldn't.  We 
were  obliged  to  have  extra  dishes,  and  pay  extra.  Gusta- 
vus  had  a  mayonnaise  of  crayfish,  and  half  a  fowl ;  I  fell 
to  work  upon  my  cheese,  as  usual,  and  availed  myself  of 
the  discretionary  bread.  We  went  away  disgusted,  wretched, 
unhappy.  We  had  had  for  our  three  francs  bad  bread,  bad 
meat,  bad  wine.  And  there  stood  the  landlord  at  the  door 
(and  be  hanged  to  him  I)  grinning  and  offering  his  box. 

We  don't  speak  to  Hopkinson  any  more  now  when  we 
meet  him.  How  can  you  trust  or  be  friendly  with  a  man 
who  deceives  you  in  this  miserable  way  ? 

What  is  the  moral  to  be  drawn  from  this  dinner  ?  It  is 
evident.     Avoid  pretence  ;    mistrust  shabby  elegance ;    cut 


340  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

your  coat  according  to  your  cloth ;  if  you  have  but  a  few 
shillings  in  your  pocket,  aim  only  at  those  humble  and 
honest  meats  which  your  small  store  will  purchase.  At 
the  Cafe  Foy,  for  the  same  money,  I  might  have  had 

/.   s. 

A  delicious  entrecote  and  potatoes 15 

A  pint  of  excellent  wine 010 

A  little  bread  (meaning  a  great  deal) 0    5 

A  dish  of  stewed  kidneys 10 

3    0 

Or  at  Paolo's : 

A  bread  (as  before) 0    5 

A  heap  of  macaroni,  or  raviuoli 0  15 

A  Milanese  cutlet 10 

A  pint  of  wine 0  10 

And  ten  sous  for  any  other  luxury  your  imagination  could 
suggest.  The  raviuoli  and  the  cutlets  are  admirably  dressed 
at  Paolo's.     Does  any  healthy  man  need  more  ? 

These  dinners,  I  am  perfectly  aware,  are  by  no  means 
splendid ;  and  I  might,  with  the  most  perfect  ease,  write 
you  out  a  dozen  bills  of  fare,  each  more  splendid  and 
piquant  than  the  other,  in  which  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
season  should  figure.  But  the  remarks  here  set  down  are 
the  result  of  experience,  not  fancy,  and  intended  only  for 
persons  in  the  middling  classes  of  life.  Very  few  men  can 
afford  to  pay  more  than  five  francs  daily  for  dinner.  Let 
us  calmly,  then,  consider  what  enjoyment  may  be  had  for 
those  five  francs ;  how,  by  economy  on  one  day,  we  may 
venture  upon  luxury  the  next ;  how,  by  a  little  forethought 
and  care,  we  may  be  happy  on  all  days.  Who  knew  and 
studied  this  cheap  philosophy  of  life  better  than  old  Horace 
before  quoted  ?  Sometimes  (when  in  luck)  he  chirruped 
over  cups  that  were  fit  for  an  archbishop's  supper  ;  some- 
times he  philosophized  over  his  own  ordinaire  at  his  own 
farm.     How  affecting  is  the  last  ode  of  the  first  book :  — 

To  his  serving-boij.  Ad  Minlstram. 

Persicos  odi,  Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is,  — 
Puer,  apparatus;  I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss; 

Displicent  nexaj  Your  silly  entrees  and  made  dishes 
Philyra  coronse:  Were  never  intended  for  us. 

]Mitte  sectari  No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 
Rosa  quo  locorum  Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair; 

Sera  moretur.  And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 
Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 


MEMORIALS   OF  GORMAXDIZIXG.  ;j4J 

Siraplici  uiyrto  But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 
Nihil  allabores  I  pr'ythee  get  ready  at  three: 

Sedulus  curiv:  Have  it  smoking,  and  tender,  and  juicy, 
Neque  te  ministrum  And  what  betler  meat  can  there  be  ? 

Dedecet  myrtus.  And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 
Neque  me  sub  arcta  'Twill  amply  sutRce  for  the  maid; 

Vite  bibentem.  Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster. 
And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 

Not  that  this  is  the  truth  entirely  and  forever.  Horatiiis 
Flaccus  was  too  Avise  to  dislike  a  good  thing ;  but  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  Persian  apparatus  was  on  that  day  beyond 
his  means,  and  so  he  contented  himself  with  humble  fare. 

A  gentleman,  by  the  by,  has  just  come  to  Paris  to  whom 
I  am  very  kind ;  and  who  will,  in  all  human  probability, 
between  this  and  next  month,  ask  me  to  a  dinner  at  the 
"  Rocher  de  Cancale."  If  so,  something  may  occur  worth 
writing  about ;  or  if  you  are  anxious  to  hear  more  on  the 
subject,  send  me  over  a  sum  to  my  address,  to  be  laid  out 
for  you  exclusively  in  eating.  I  give  3'ou  my  honor  I  will 
do  you  justice,  and  account  for  every  farthing  of  it. 

One  of  the  most  absurd  customs  at  present  in  use  is  that 
of  giving  your  friend  —  when  some  piece  of  good  luck  hap- 
pens to  him,  such  as  an  appointment  as  Chief  Judge  of 
Owhyhee,  or  King's  advocate  to  Timbuctoo  —  of  giving 
your  friend,  because,  forsooth,  he  may  have  been  suddenly 
elevated  from  200/.  a  year  to  2,000/.,  an  enormous  dinner  of 
congratulation. 

Last  year,  for  instance,  when  our  friend,  Fred  Jowling, 
got  his  place  of  Commissioner  at  Quashumaboo,  it  was  con- 
sidered absolutely  necessary  to  give  the  man  a  dinner,  and 
some  score  of  us  had  to  pay  about  fifty  shillings  apiece  for 
the  purpose.  I  had,  so  help  me  Moses  !  but  three  guineas 
in  the  world  at  that  period;  and  out  of  this  sum  the 
hienseances  compelled  me  to  sacrifice  five-sixths,  to  feast 
myself  in  company  of  a  man  gorged  with  wealth,  rattling 
sovereigns  in  his  pocket  as  if  they  had  been  so  much  dross, 
and  capable  of  treating  us  all  without  missing  the  sum  he 
might  expend  on  us. 

Jow  himself  allowed,  as  I  represented  the  case  to  him, 
that  the  arrangement  luas  very  hard ;  but  represented, 
fairly  enough,  that  this  was  one  of  the  sacrifices  that  a  man 
of  the  world,  from  time  to  time,  is  called  to  make.  "  You, 
my  dear  Titmarsh,''  said  he,  ''  know  very  well  that  I  don't 
care  for  these  grand  entertainments  "  (the  rogue,  he  is  a 


342  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

five-bottle  man,  and  just  the  most  finished  gourmet  of  my 
acquaintance  !) ;  "  3^011  know  that  I  am  perfectly  convinced 
of  your  friendship  for  me,  though  you  join  in  the  dinner  or 
not,  but  —  it  would  look  rather  queer  if  you  backed  out,  — 
it  would  look  rather  queer.''''  Jow  said  this  in  such  an  em- 
phatic wa}^,  that  I  saw  I  must  lay  down  my  money ;  and 
accordingly  Mr.  Lovegrove  of  Blackwall,  for  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  iced  punch,  champagne,  cider-cup,  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  received  the  last  of  my  sovereigns. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  Bolter  got  a  place  too  — 
Judge  Advocate  in  the  Topinambo  Islands,  of  3,000^.  a  year, 
which,  he  said,  was  a  poor  remuneration  in  consideration  of 
the  practice  which  he  gave  up  in  town.  He  may  have  prac- 
tised on  his  laundress,  but  for  anything  else  I  believe  the 
man  never  had  a  client  in  his  life. 

However,  on  his  way  to  Topinambo  —  by  Marseilles, 
Egypt,  the  Desert,  the  Persian  Gulf,  and  so  on  —  Bolter 
arrived  in  Paris ;  and  I  saw  from  his  appearance,  and  his 
manner  of  shaking  hands  with  me,  and  the  peculiar  way  in 
which  he  talked  about  the  "  Rocher  de  Cancale,"  that  he  ex- 
pected we  were  to  give  him  a  dinner,  as  we  had  to  Jowling. 

There  were  four  friends  of  Bolter's  in  the  capital  besides 
myself,  and  among  us  the  dinner  question  was  mooted :  we 
agreed  that  it  should  be  a  simple  dinner  of  ten  francs  a 
head,  and  this  was  the  bill  of  fare  :  — 

1.  Oj'sters  (common),  nice. 

2.  Oysters,  green  of  Marennes  (very  good). 

3.  Potage,  puree  de  gibier  (very  fair). 

As  we  were  English,  they  instantly  then  served  us,  — 

4.  Sole  en  raatelotte  Normande  (comme  9a). 

5.  Turbot  a  la  creme  au  gratin  (excellent). 

6.  Jardiniere  cutlets  (particularly  seedy). 

7.  Poulet  a  la  Marengo  ( very  fair,  but  why  the  deuce  is  one  al- 
ways to  be  pestered  by  it  ?). 

g'      \  (Entrees  of  some  kind,  but  a  blank  in  my  memory.) 

10.  A  rot  of  chevreuil. 

11.  Ditto  of  ortolans  (very  hot,  crisp,  and  nice). 

12.  Ditto  of  partridges  (quite  good  and  plump). 

13.  Pointes  d'asperges. 

14.  Cbanipignons  h.  la  Proven^ale  (the  most  delicious  mushrooms 
I  ever  tasted). 

15.  Pineapple  jelly. 

16.  Blanc,  or  red  mange. 


MEMORIALS    OF  GORMANDIZING.  343 

IT.  Pencacks.  Let  everybody  who  goes  to  the  "  Rocher  "  order 
these  pancakes;  they  are  arranged  with  jelly  inside,  rolled  up  between 
various  couches  of  vermicelli,  flavored  with  a  leetle  wine;  and,  by 
everything  sacred,  the  most  delightful  meat  possible. 

18.     Tirabale  of  macaroni. 

The  jellies  and  sucreries  should  have  been  mentioned  in 
the  dessert,  and  there  were  numberless  plates  of  trifles, 
which  made  the  table  look  very  pretty,  but  need  not  be 
mentioned  here. 

The  dinner  was  not  a  fine  one,  as  you  see.  Xo  rarities, 
no  truffles  even,  no  mets  de  primeur,  though  there  were 
peas  and  asparagus  in  the  market  at  a  pretty  fair  price. 
But  with  rarities  no  man  has  any  business  except  he  have 
a  colossal  fortune.  Hothouse  strawberries,  asparagus,  etc., 
are,  as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  most  fade,  mean,  and 
tasteless  meats.  jVIuch  better  to  have  a  simple  dinner  of 
twenty  dishes,  and  content  therewith,  than  to  look  for  im- 
possible splendors  and  Apician  morsels. 

In  respect  of  wine.  Let  those  who  go  to  the  ''  Eocher  " 
take  my  advice  and  order  Madeira.  They  have  here  some 
pale  old  East  India  very  good.  How  they  got  it  is  a  secret, 
for  the  Parisians  do  not  know  good  Madeira  when  they  see 
it.  Some  very  fair  strong  young  wine  may  be  had  at  the 
Hotel  des  Americains,  in  the  Rue  Saint  Honore  ;  as,  indeed, 
all  West  India  produce  —  pineapple  rum,  for  instance.  I 
may  say,  with  confidence,  that  I  never  knew  what  rum  was 
until  I  tasted  this  at  Paris. 

But  to  the  "  Rocher."  The  ^Fadeira  was  the  best  wine 
served ;  though  some  Burgundy,  handed  round  in  the 
course  of  dinner,  and  a  bottle  of  jMontrachet,  similarly 
poured  out  to  us,  were  very  fair.  The  champagne  was 
decidedl}^  not  good — poor,  inflated,  thin  stuff.  They  say 
the  drink  we  swallow  in  England  is  not  genuine  wine,  but 
brandy-loaded  and  otherwise  doctored  for  the  English  mar- 
ket ;  but,  ah,  what  superior  wine  !  Au  reste,  the  French  will 
not  generally  pay  the  money  for  the  wine ;  and  it  there- 
fore is  carried  from  an  ungrateful  country  to  more  generous 
climes,  where  it  is  better  appreciated.  We  had  claret  and 
speeches  after  dinner ;  and  very  possibly  some  of  the  per- 
sons present  made  free  with  a  jug  of  hot  water,  a  few 
lumps  of  sugar,  and  the  horrid  addition  of  a  glass  of  cog- 
nac. There  can  be  no  worse  practice  than  this.  After  a 
dinner  of  eighteen  dishes,  in  which  you  have  drunk  at  least 
thirty-six  glasses  of  wine  —  when  the  stomach  is  full,  the 


344  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

brain  heavy,  the  hands  and  feet  inflamed  —  when  the  claret 
begins  to  pi.ll — you,  forsooth,  must  gorge  yourself  with 
brandy  and  water,  and  puff  filthy  cigars.  For  shame  ! 
Who  ever  does  it  ?  Does  a  gentleman  drink  brandy  and 
water  ?  Does  a  man  who  mixes  in  the  society  of  the  love- 
lier half  of  humanity  befoul  himself  by  toJjacco-smoke  ? 
Fie,  fie  !  avoid  the  practice.  I  indulge  in  it  always  myself ; 
but  that  is  no  reason  why  you,  a  young  man  entering  into 
the  world,  should  degrade  yourself  in  any  such  way.  No, 
no,  my  dear  lad,  never  refuse  an  evening  party,  and  avoid 
tobacco  as  you  would  the  upas  plant. 

By  the  way,  not  having  my  purse  about  me  when  the 
above  dinner  was  given,  I  was  constrained  to  borrow  from 
Bolter,  whom  I  knew  more  intimately  than  the  rest ;  and 
nothing  grieved  me  more  than  to  find,  on  calling  at  his 
hotel  four  days  afterwards,  that  he  had  set  off  by  the  mail 
post  for  JNIarseilles.  Friend  of  my  youth,  dear  dear  Bolter  ! 
if  haply  this  trifling  page  should  come  before  thine  eyes, 
weary  of  perusing  the  sacred  rolls  of  Themis  in  thy  far-off 
island  in  the  Indian  Sea,  thou  wilt  recall  our  little  dinner 
in  the  little  room  of  the  Cancalian  Coffee-house,  and  think 
for  a  Avhile  of  thy  friend ! 

Let  us  now  mention  one  or  two  places  that  the  Briton, 
on  his  arrival  here,  should  frequent  or  avoid.  As  a  quiet 
dear  house,  where  there  are  some  of  the  best  rooms  in  Paris 
—  always  the  best  meat,  fowls,  vegetables,  etc.  —  we  may 
specially  recommend  Monsieur  Voisin's  cafe,  opposite  the 
Church  of  the  Assumption.  A  very  decent  and  lively 
house  of  restauration  is  that  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du 
Faubourg  Montmartre,  on  the  Boulevard.  I  never  yet  had 
a  good  dinner  at  Vefour's ;  something  is  always  manque  dX 
the  place.  The  grand  Vatel  is  worthy  of  note,  as  cheap, 
pretty,  and  quiet.  All  the  English  houses  gentlemen  may 
frequent  who  are  so  inclined ;  but  though  the  writer  of  this 
has  many  times  dined  for  sixteen  sous  at  Catcomb's,  cheek 
by  jowl  with  a  French  chasseur  or  a  laborer,  he  has,  he  con- 
fesses, an  antipathy  to  enter  into  the  confidence  of  a  foot- 
man or  groom  of  his  own  country. 

A  gentleman  who  purchases  pictures  in  this  town  was 
lately  waited  upon  by  a  lady,  who  said  she  had  in  her 
possession  one  of  the  greatest  rarities  in  the  world,  —  a 
picture  admirable,  too,  as  a  work  of  art,  —  no  less  than  an 
original  portrait  of  Shakspeare,  by  his  comrade,  the  famous 
John   Davis.     The  gentleman   rushed  off  immediately  to 


MEMORIALS  OF  GORMANDIZING.  345 

behold  the  wonder,  and  saw  a  head,  rudely  but  vigorously 
painted  on  panel,  about  twice  the  size  of  life,  with  a  couple 
of  hooks  drawn  through  the  top  part  of  the  board,  under 
which  was  written,  — 

THE   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEAKE, 
BY   JOHN    DAVIS. 

'•  Voyez-vous,  Monsieur,"  said  the  lady;  ^- il  n'y  a  plus 
de  doute.  Le  portrait  de  Shakspeare,  du  celebre  Davis,  et 
signe  meme  de  lui !  " 

I  remember  it  used  to  hang  up  in  a  silent  little  street  in 
the  Latin  quarter,  near  an  old  convent,  before  a  quaint  old 
quiet  tavern  that  I  loved.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  old 
name  written  up  in  a  strange  land,  and  the  well-known 
friendly  face  greeting  one.  There  was  a  quiet  little  garden 
at  the  back  of  the  tavern,  and  famous  good  roast  beef, 
clean  rooms,  and  English  beer.  Where  are  you  now,  John 
Davis  ?  Could  not  the  image  of  thy  august  patron  pre- 
serve thy  house  from  ruin,  or  rally  the  faithful  around  it  ? 
Are  you  unfortunate,  Davis  ?  Are  you  a  bankrupt  ?  Let 
us  hope  not.  I  swear  to  thee,  that  when,  one  sunny  after- 
noon, I  saw  the  ensign  of  thy  tavern,  I  loved  thee  for  thy 
choice,  and  doused  my  cap  on  entering  the  porch,  and  looked 
around,  and  thought  all  friends  were  here. 

In  the  queer  old  pleasant  novel  of  the  "  Spiritual  Quixote  " 
honest  Tugwell,  the  Sanoho  of  the  story,  relates  a  Warwick- 
shire legend,  which  at  the  time  Graves  wrote  was  not  much 
more  than  a  hundred  years  old ;  and  by  which  it  appears 
that  the  owner  of  New  Place  was  a  famous  jesting  gentle- 
man, and  used  to  sit  at  his  gate  of  summer  evenings,  cutting 
the  queerest  merriest  jokes  with  all  the  passers-by.  I  have 
heard  from  a  Warwickshire  clergyman  that  the  legend  still 
exists  in  the  country ;  and  Ward's  "  Diary "  says  that 
Master  Shakspeare  died  of  a  surfeit,  brought  on  by  carous- 
ing with  a  literary  friend  who  had  come  to  visit  him  from 
London.  And  wherefore  not  ?  Better  to  die  of  good  wine 
and  good  company  than  of  slow  disease  and  doctors'  doses. 
Some  geniuses  live  on  sour  misanthropy,  and  some  on  meek 
milk  and  water.  Let  us  not  deal  too  hardly  with  those 
that  are  of  a  jovial  sort,  and  indulge  in  the  decent  prac- 
tice of  the  cup  and  the  platter. 

A  word  or  two,  by  way  of  conclusion,  may  be  said  about 
the   numerous  pleasant  villages   in   the  neighborhood   of 


346  ODDS  AND  ENDS, 

Paris,  or  rather  of  the  eating  and  drinking  to  be  found  in 
the  taverns  of  those  suburban  spots.  At  Versailles,  Mon- 
sieur Duboux,  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs,  has  a  good  cook 
and  cellars,  and  will  gratify  you  with  a  heavier  bill  than  is 
paid  at  Very's  and  the  "  Rocher."  On  the  beautiful  terrace 
of  Saint  Germain,  looking  over  miles  of  river  and  vine- 
yard, of  fair  villages  basking  in  the  meadows,  and  great 
tall  trees  stretching  wide  round  about,  you  may  sit  in  the 
open  air  of  summer  evenings,  and  see  the  white  spires  of 
Saint  Denis  rising  in  the  distance,  and  the  gray  arches  of 
Marly  to  the  right,  and  before  you  the  city  of  Paris  with 
innumerable  domes  and  towers. 

Watching  these  objects,  and  the  setting  sun  gorgeously 
illumining  the  heavens  and  them,  you  may  have  an  excellent 
dinner  served  to  you  by  the  chef  of  Messire  Gallois,  who 
at  present  owns  the  pavilion  where  Louis  XIV.  was  born. 
The  maitre  d^ hotel  is  from  the  '■  Rocher,"  and  told  us  that 
he  came  out  to  Saint  Germain  for  the  sake  of  the  air.  The 
only  drawback  to  the  entertainment  is,  that  the  charges 
are  as  atrociously  high  in  price  as  the  dishes  provided  are 
small  in  quantity ;  and  dining  in  this  pavilion  on  the  15th 
of  April,  at  a  period  when  a  hotte  of  asparagus  at  Paris 
cost  only  three  francs,  the  writer  of  this  and  a  chosen 
associate  had  to  pay  seven  francs  for  about  the  third  part 
of  a  hotte  of  asparagus  served  up  to  them  by  Messire 
Gallois. 

Facts  like  these  ought  not  to  go  unnoticed.  Therefore 
let  the  readers  of  Fraser'^s  Magaziiie  who  propose  a  visit  to 
Paris  take  warning  by  the  unhappy  fate  of  the  person  now 
addressing  them,  and  avoid  the  place  or  not,  as  they  think 
fit.  A  bad  dinner  does  no  harm  to  any  human  soul,  and 
the  philosopher  partakes  of  such  with  easy  resignation; 
but  a  bad  and  dear  dinner  is  enough  to  raise  the  anger  of 
any  man,  however  naturally  sweet-tempered,  and  he  is 
bound  to  warn  his  acquaintance  of  it. 

With  one  parting  syllable  in  praise  of  the  "  Marronniers  " 
at  Bercy,  where  you  get  capital  eels,  fried  gudgeons  fresh 
from  the  Seine,  and  excellent  wine  of  the  ordinary  kind, 
this  discourse  is  here  closed.  "  En  telle  ou  meilleure  pen- 
see,  Beuueurs  tres  illustres  (car  a  vous  non  a  aultres  sont 
dedies  ces  escriptz),  reconfortez  vostre  malheur,  et  beuuez 
fraiz  si  faire  se  peult." 


MEN  AJSD  COATS.  347 


MEN   AND   COATS. 

[Fraser's  Magazine,  August,  1841.] 

There  is  some  peculiar  influence,  which  no  doubt  the 
reader  has  lemarked  iu  his  own  case,  for  it  has  been  sung 
by  ten  thousand  poets  or  versifying  persons,  whose  ideas 
you  adopt,  if  perchance,  as  is  barely  possible,  you  have 
none  of  your  own  —  there  is,  I  say,  a  certain  balmy  influence 
in  the  spring-time,  which  brings  a  rush  of  fresh  dancing 
blood  into  the  veins  of  all  nature,  and  causes  it  to  wear  a 
peculiarly  festive  and  sporting  look.  Look  at  the  old  Sun, 
—  how  pale  he  was  all  the  winter  through  !  Some  days  he 
was  so  cold  and  wretched  he  would  not  come  out  at  all,  — 
he  would  not  leave  his  bed  till  eight  o'clock,  and  retired  to 
rest,  the  old  sluggard !  at  four ;  but  lo !  comes  May,  and 
he  is  up  at  Ave,  —  he  feels,  like  the  rest  of  us,  the  delicious 
vernal  influence  ;  he  is  always  walking  abroad  in  the  fresh 
air,  and  his  jolly  face  lights  up  anew!  Remark  the  trees; 
they  have  dragged  through  the  shivering  winter-time  with- 
out so  much  as  a  rag  to  cover  them,  but  about  May  they 
feel  obligated  to  follow  the  mode,  and  come  out  in  a  new 
suit  of  green.  The  meadows,  in  like  manner,  appear  in- 
vested with  a  variety  of  pretty  spring  fashions,  not  only 
covering  their  backs  with  a  brand-new  glossy  suit,  but 
sporting  a  world  of  little  coquettish  ornamental  gimcracks 
that  are  suited  to  the  season.  This  one  covers  his  robe 
with  the  most  delicate  twinkling  white  daisies  ;  that  tricks 
himself  out  with  numberless  golden  cowslips,  or  decorates 
his  bosom  with  a  bunch  of  dusky  violets.  Birds  sing  and 
make  love ;  bees  wake  and  make  honey ;  horses  and  men 
leave  off  their  shagg}'  winter  clothing  and  turn  out  in 
fresh  coats.  The  only  animal  that  does  not  feel  the  power 
of  spring  is  that  selfish,  silent,  and  cold-blooded  beast,  the 
oyster,  who  shuts  himself  up  for  the  best  months  of  the 
year,  and  with  whom  the  climate  disagrees. 

Some  people  have  wondered  how  it  is  that  what  is 
called  "  the  "^season "  in  London  should   not   begin  until 


348  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

spring.  What  an  absurd  subject  for  wondering  at !  How 
could  the  London  season  begin  at  any  other  time  ?  How 
could  the  great,  black,  bilious,  overgrown  city,  stifled  by 
gas,  and  fogs,  and  politics,  ever  hope  to  have  a  season 
at  all,  unless  nature  with  a  violent  effort  came  to  its  aid 
about  Eastertime,  and  infused  into  it  a  little  spring  blood  ? 
The  town  of  London  feels  then  the  influences  of  the 
spring,  and  salutes  it  after  its  fashion.  The  parks  are 
green  for  about  a  couple  of  months.  Lady  Smigsmag  and 
other  leaders  of  the  ton  give  their  series  of  grand  parties ; 
Gunter  and  Grange  come  forward  with  iced-creams  and 
champagnes  ;  ducks  and  green  peas  burst  out ;  the  river 
Thames  blossoms  with  whitebait;  and  Alderman  Birch 
announces  the  arrival  of  fresh  lively  turtle.  If  there  are 
no  birds  to  sing  and  make  love,  as  in  country  places,  at 
least  there  are  coveys  of  opera-girls  that  frisk  and  hop 
about  airily,  and  Eubini  and  Lablache  to  act  as  a  couple  of 
nightingales.  "A  lady  of  fashion  remarked,"  says  Dyson  in 
the  Morning  Post,  "  that  for  all  persons  pretending  to  hold  a 
position  in  genteel  society,"  —  I  forget  the  exact  words, 
but  the  sense  of  them  remains  indelibly  engraven  upon  my 
mind,  —  "for  any  one  pretending  to  take  a  place  in  genteel 
society  two  things  are  indispensable.     And  what  are  these  ? 

a  BOUQUET  AND  AN  EMBROIDERED  POCKET-HANDKER- 
CHIEF." This  is  a  self-evident  truth.  Dyson  does  not 
furnish  the  bouquets  —  he  is  not  a  market-gardener  —  he 
is  not  the  goddess  Flora  ;  but,  a  town  man,  he  knows  what 
the  season  requires,  and  furnishes  his  contribution  to  it. 
The  lilies  of  the  field  are  not  more  white  and  graceful 
than  his  embroidered  nose  ornaments,  and,  with  a  little  eau 
des  cent  milles  fleurs,  not  more  fragrant.  Dyson  knows 
that  pocket-handkerchiefs  are  necessary,  and  has  '•  an  ex- 
press from  Longchamps  "  to  bring  them  over. 

Whether  they  are  picked  from  ladies'  pockets  by  Dyson's 
couriers,  who  then  hurry  breathless  across  the  Channel 
with  them,  no  one  need  ask.  But  the  gist  of  Dyson's 
advertisement,  and  of  all  the  preceding  remarks,  is  this 
great  truth,  which  need  not  be  carried  out  further  by  any 
illustrations  from  geography  or  natural  history,  —  that  in 
the  spring-time  all  nature  renews  itself.  There  is  not  a 
country  newspaper  published  in  England  that  does  not  pro- 
claim the  same  fact.  Madame  Hoggin  informs  the  nobility 
and  gentry  of  Penzance  that  her  new  and  gigantic  stock  of 
Parisian  fashions  has  just  arrived  from  London.     Made- 


MEN  AND   COATS.  349 

moiselle  M'Whirter  begs  to  announce  to  the  haut-ton  in  the 
environs  of  John-o'-Groat's  that  she  has  this  instant  re- 
turned from  Paris,  with  her  dazzling  and  beautiful  collection 
of  spring  fashions. 

In  common  with  the  birds,  the  trees,  the  meadows,  — 
in  common  with  the  Sun,  with  Dyson,  with  all  nature,  in 
fact,  —  I  yielded  to  the  irresistible  spring  impalse  —  homo 
sum,  nihil  liumani  a  me  alienum,  etc.  — I  acknowledged  the 
influence  of  the  season,  and  ordered  a  new  coat,  waistcoat, 

and  tr in  short,  a  new  suit.     Now,  having  worn  it  for 

a  few  days,  and  studied  the  effect  which  it  has  upon  the 
wearer,  I  thought  that  perhaps  an  essay  upon  new  clotlies 
and  their  influence  might  be  attended  with  some  profit  both 
to  the  public  and  the  writer. 

One  thing  is  certain.  A  man  does  not  have  a  new  suit 
of  clothes  every  day ;  and  another  general  proposition  may 
be  advanced,  that  a  man  in  sporting  a  coat  for  the  first 
time  is  either 

a^ijreeably  afifectod,  or 
disagreeably   affected,  or 
not  affected  at  all,  — 

which  latter  case  I  don't  believe.  There  is  no  man,  how- 
ever  accustomed  to  new  clothes,  but  must  feel  some  senti- 
ment of  pride  in  assuming  them,  — no  philosopher,  however 
calm,  but  must  remark  the  change  of  raiment.  j\Ien  con- 
sent to  wear  old  clothes  forever,  —  nay,  feel  a  pang  at 
parting  with  them  for  new ;  but  the  first  appearance  of  a 
new  garment  is  always  attended  with  exultation. 

Even  the  feeling  of  shyness,  which  makes  a  man  ashamed 
of  his  splendor,  is  a  proof  of  his  high  sense  of  it.  AVhat 
causes  an  individual  to  sneak  about  in  corners  and  shady 
places,  to  avoid  going  out  in  new  clothes  of  a  Sunday,  lest 
he  be  mistaken  for  a  snob  ?  Sometimes  even  to  go  the 
length  of  ordering  his  servant  to  powder  his  new  coat  with 
sand,  or  to  wear  it  for  a  couple  of  days,  and  remove  the 
gloss  thereof  ?  Are  not  these  manoeuvres  proofs  of  the 
effects  of  new  coats  upon  mankind  in  general  ? 

As  this  notice  will  occupy  at  least  ten  pages  (for  a  reason 
that  may  be  afterwards  mentioned),  1  intend,  like  the 
great  philosophers  who  have  always  sacrificed  themselves 
for  the  public  good  —  imbibing  diseases,  poisons,  and  medi- 
cines, submitting  to  operations,  inhaling  asphyxiations,  etc., 
in  order  that  they  might  note  in  themselves  the  particular 


350  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

phenomena  of  the  case,  —  in  like  manner,  I  say,  I  intend 
to  write  this  essay  in  five  several  coats,  viz. :  — 

1.  My  old  single-breasted  black  frock-coat,  with  patches 
at  the  elbows,  made  to  go  into  mourning  for  William  IV. 

2.  My  double-breasted  green  ditto,  made  last  year  but 
one,  and  still  very  good,  but  rather  queer  about  the  lining, 
and  snowy  in  the  seams. 

3.  My  grand  black  dress-coat,  made  by  Messrs.  Sparding 
and  Spohrer,  of  Conduit  Street,  in  1836.  A  little  scouring 
and  renovating  having  given  it  a  stylish  look  even  now  5  and 
it  was  always  a  splendid  cut. 

4.  My  worsted-net  jacket  that  my  uncle  Harry  gave  me  on 
his  departure  for  Italy.  This  jacket  is  wadded  inside  with 
a  wool  like  that  one  makes  Welsh  wigs  of ;  and,  though 
not  handsome,  amazing  comfortable,  with  pockets  all  over. 

5.  My  new  frock-coat. 

Now,  will  the  reader  be  able  to  perceive  any  difference 
in  the  style  of  writing  of  each  chapter?  I  fancy  I  see  it- 
myself  clearly  ;  and  am  convinced  that  the  new  frock-coat 
chapter  will  be  infinitely  more  genteel,  spruce,  and  glossy 
than  the  woollen-jacket  chapter;  which,  again,  shall  be 
more  comfortable  than  the  poor,  seedy,  patched  William- 
the-Fourth's  black-frock  chapter.  The  double-breasted 
green  one  will  be  dashing,  manly,  free  and  easy;  and, 
though  not  fashionable,  yet  with  a  well-bred  look.  The 
grand  black-dress  chapter  will  be  solemn  and  grave,  devil- 
ish tight  about  the  waist,  abounding  in  bows  and  shrugs, 
and  small  talk ;  it  will  have  a  great  odor  of  bohea  and 
pound  cake  ;  perhaps  there  will  be  a  faint  whiff  of  negus  ; 
and  the  tails  will  whisk  up  in  a  quadrille  at  the  end,  or 
sink  down,  mayhap,  on  a  supper-table  bench  before  a  quan- 
tity of  trifles,  lobster  salads,  and  champagnes ;  and  near  a 
lovely  blushing  white  satin  skirt,  which  is  continually  cry- 
ing out,  "  0  you  ojous  creature ! "  or,  '^  0  you  naughty 
satirical  man,  you!"  "And  do  you  really  believe  Miss 
Moffat  dyes  her  hair  ?  "  "  And  have  you  read  that  sweet 
thing  in  the  ^  Keepsake '  by  Lord  Diddle  ?  "  "  Well,  only 
one  leetle  leetle  drop,  for  mamma  will  scold ;  "  and  "  0  you 
horrid  Mr.  Titmarsh,  you  have  filled  my  glass,  I  declare  ! " 
Dear  white  satin  skirt,  what  pretty  shoulders  and  eyes  you 
have !  what  a  nice  white  neck,  and  bluish-mottled,  round, 
innocent  arms  !  how  fresh  you  are  and  candid !  and  ah,  my 
dear,  what  a  fool  you  are  ! 


MEN  AND   COATS.  351 

I  don't  have  so  many  coats  nowadays  as  in  the  days  of 
hot  youth,  when  the  figure  was  more  elegant,  and  credit, 
mayhap,  more  plenty ;  and,  perhaps,  this  accounts  for  the 
feeling  of  unusual  exultation  that  comes  over  me  as  I 
assume  this  one.  Look  at  the  skirts  how  they  are  sliining 
in  the  sun,  with  a  delicate  gloss  upon  them,  —  that  evanes- 
cent gloss  that  passes  away  with  the  first  freshness  of  the 
coat,  as  the  bloom  does  from  the  peach.  A  friend  meets 
you,  —  he  salutes  you  cordially,  but  looks  puzzled  for  a 
moment  at  the  change  in  your  appearance.  "  I  have  it !  " 
says  Jones.  "Hobson,  my  boy,  I  congratulate  you,  —  a 
new  coat,  and  very  neat  cut,  —  puce-colored  frock,  brown 
silk  lining,  brass  buttons  and  velvet  collar,  —  quite  novel, 
and  quiet  and  genteel  at  the  same  time."  You  say,  "Pooh, 
Jones  !  do  you  think  so,  though  ?  "  and  at  the  same  time 
turn  round  just  to  give  him  a  view  of  the  back,  in  which 
there  is  not  a  single  wrinkle.  You  find  suddenly  that  you 
must  buy  a  new  stock  ;  that  your  old  Berlin  gloves  will 
never  do ;  and  that  a  pair  of  three-and-sixpennj'  kids  are 
absolutely  necessary.  You  find  your  boots  are  cruelly  thick, 
and  fancy  that  the  attention  of  the  world  is  accurately 
divided  between  the  new  frock-coat  and  the  patch  on  your 
great  toe.  It  is  very  odd  that  that  patch  did  not  annoy 
you  yesterday  in  the  least  degree,  —  that  you  looked  with 
a  good-natured  grin  at  the  old  sausage-fingered  Berlin 
gloves,  bulging  out  at  the  end  and  concaved  like  spoons. 
But  there  is  a  change  in  the  man,  without  any  doubt. 
Notice  Sir  M O'D :  those  who  know  that  cele- 
brated military  man  by  sight  are  aware  of  one  peculiarity 
in  his  appearance  —  his  hat  is  never  brushed.  I  met  him 
one  day  with  the  beaver  brushed  quite  primly  ;  and,  looking 
hard  at  the  baronet  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  this  phenome- 
non, saw  that  he  had  a  new  coat.  Even  his  great  spirit 
was  obliged  to  yield  to  the  power  of  the  coat,  — he  made  a 
genteel  eif ort,  —  he  awoke  up  from  his  habitual  Biogenic 
carelessness ;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  had  Alexander,  before 
he  visited  the  cynic,  ordered  some  one  to  fling  a  new  robe 
into  his  barrel,  but  that  he  would  have  found  the  fellow 
prating  and  boasting  with  all  the  airs  of  a  man  of  fashion, 
and  talking  of  tilburies,  opera-girls,  and  the  last  ball  at 
Devonshire  House,  as  if  the  brute  had  been  used  all  his 
life  to  no  other  compan3\  Fie  upon  the  swaggering  vulgar 
bully  !  I  have  always  wondered  how  the  Prince  of  Mace- 
don,  a  gentleman  by  birth,  with  an  excellent  tutor  to  edu- 


352  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

cate  him,  could  have  been  imposed  upon  by  the  grovelling, 
obscene,  envious  tub-man,  and  could  have  uttered  the 
speech  we  know  of.  It  was  a  humbug,  depend  upon  it, 
attributed  to  his  Majesty  by  some  maladroit  hon-mot  maker 
of  the  Court,  and  passed  subsequently  for  genuine  Alexan- 
drine. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  the  moralist  earnestly  to  jjoint 
out  to  persons  moving  in  a  modest  station  of  life  the  neces- 
sity of  not  having  coats  of  too  fashionable  and  rakish  a  cut. 
Coats  have  been,  and  will  be  in  the  course  of  this  disquisi- 
tion, frequently  compared  to  the  flowers  of  the  field ;  like 
them  they  bloom  for  a  season,  like  them  they  grow  seedy 
and  they  fade. 

Can  you  afford  always  to  renew  your  coat  when  this  fatal 
hour  arrives  ?  Is  your  coat  like  the  French  monarchy, 
and  does  it  never  die  ?  Have,  then,  clothes  of  the  newest 
fashion,  and  pass  on  to  the  next  article  in  the  Magazine,  — 
unless,  always,  you  prefer  the  style  of  this  one. 

But  while  a  shabby  coat,  worn  in  a  manly  way,  is  a  bear- 
able, nay,  sometimes  a  pleasing  object,  reminding  one  of 
"a  good  man  struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate,"  whom 
Mr.  Joseph  Addison  has  represented  in  his  tragedy  of 
"  Cato,"  —  while  a  man  of  a  certain  character  may  look 
august  and  gentlemanlike  in  a  coat  of  a  certain  cut,  —  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  a  person  who  sports  an  ultras-fashion- 
able costume  to  wear  it  with  decency  beyond  a  half-year, 
say.  My  coats  always  last  me  two  years,  and  any  man  who 
knows  me  knows  how  I  look  ;  but  I  defy  Count  d'Orsay 
thus  publicly  to  wear  a  suit  for  seven  hundred  and  thirty 
days  consecutively,  and  look  respectable  at  the  end  of  that 
time.     In  like  manner  I  would  defy,  without  any  disrespect, 

the  Marchioness  of  X ,  or  her  Grace  the  Duchess  of 

Z ,  to   sport  a   white    satin   gown   constantly   for   six 

months  and  look  decent.  There  is  propriety  in  dress.  Ah, 
my  poor  Noll  Goldsmith,  in  your  famous  plum-colored  vel- 
vet !  I  can  see  thee  strutting  down  Fleet  Street,  and  stout 
old  Sam  rolling  behind  as  Maister  Boswell  pours  some 
Caledonian  jokes  into  his  ear,  and  grins  at  the  poor  vain 
poet.  In  what  a  pretty  condition  will  Goldy's  puce-colored 
velvet  be  about  two  months  hence,  when  it  is  covered  with 
dust  and  grease,  and  he  comes  in  his  slatternly  finery  to 
borrow  a  guinea  of  his  friend. 

A  friend  of  the  writer's  once  made  him  a  present  of  two 
very  handsome  gold  pins ;  and  what  did  the  author  of  this 


MEN  AND   COATS.  353 

notice  do  ?  Why,  with  his  usual  sagacity,  he  instantly 
sold  the  pins  for  five  and  twenty  shillings,  the  cost  of  the 
gold,  knowing  full  well  that  he  could  not  afford  to  live  up 
to  such  fancy  articles.  If  you  sport  handsome  gold  pins, 
you  must  have  everything  about  you  to  match.  Xor  do  I 
in  the  least  agree  with  my  friend  Bosk,  who  has  a  large 
amethyst  brooch,  and  fancies  that,  because  he  sticks  it  in 
his  shirt,  his  atrocious  shabby  stock  and  surtout  may  pass 
muster.  No,  no  !  let  us  be  all  peacock,  if  you  please ;  but 
one  peacock's  feather  in  your  tail  is  a  very  absurd  orna- 
ment, and  of  course  all  moderate  men  will  avoid  it.  I 
remember,  when  I  travelled  with  Captain  Cook  in  the  South 
Sea  Islands,  to  have  seen  Quashamaboo  with  nothing  on 
him  but  a  remarkably  fine  cocked  hat,  his  queen  sported  a 
red  coat,  and  one  of  the  princesses  went  frisking  about  in  a 
pair  of  leather  breeches,  much  to  our  astonishment. 

This  costume  was  not  much  more  absurd  than  poor  Gold- 
smith's, who  might  be  very  likely  seen  drawing  forth  from 
the  gold-embroidered  pocket  of  his  plum-colored  velvet  a 
pat  of  butter  wrapi)ed  in  a  cabbage-leaf,  a  pair  of  farthing 
rush-lights,  an  onion  or  two,  and  a  bit  of  bacon. 

I  recollect  meeting  a  great,  clever,  ruffianly  boor  of  a 
man,  who  had  made  acquaintance  with  a  certain  set  of  very 
questionable  aristocracy,  and  gave  himself  the  air  of  a  man 
of  fashion.  He  had  a  coat  made  of  the  very  pattern  of 
Lord  Tfiggery's  —  a  green  frock,  a  green  velvet  collar,  a 
green  lining:  a  plate  of  spring  cabbage  is  not  of  a  brisker, 
brighter  hue.  This  man,  who  had  been  a  shopkeeper's 
apprentice  originally,  now  declared  that  every  man  who 
was  a  gentleman  wore  white  kid  gloves,  and  for  a  certain 
period  sported  a  fresh  pair  every  day. 

One  hot.  clear,  sunshiny  July  day,  walking  down  the 
Haymarket  at  two  o'clock,  I  heard  a  great  yelling  and 
shouting  of  blackguard  boys,  and  saw  that  they  were  hunt- 
ing some  object  in  their  front. 

The  object  approached  us,  —  it  was  a  green  object,  —  a 
green  coat,  collar,  and  lining,  and  a  pair  of  pseudo-white 
kid  gloves.  The  gloves  were  dabbled  with  mud  and  blood, 
the  man  was  bleeding  at  the  nose,  and  slavering  at  the 
mouth,  and  yelling  some  unintelligible  verses  of  a  song,  and 
swaying  to  and  fro  across  the  sunshiny  street,  with  the 
blackguard  boj^s  in  chase. 

I  turned  round  the  corner  of  Vigo  Lane  with  the  velocity 
of  a  cannon-ball,  and  sprang  panting  into  a  baker's  shop. 


354  ODDS   AND   ENDS. 

It  was  Mr.  Bludyer,  our  London  Diogenes.  Have  a  care, 
ye  gay  dashing  Alexanders  !  how  ye  influence  such  men  by 
too  much  praise,  or  debauch  them  by  too  much  intimacy. 
How  much  of  that  man's  extravagance,  and  absurd  aristo- 
cratic airs,  and  subsequent  roueries,  and  cutting  of  old 
acquaintance,  is  to  be  attributed  to  his  imitation  of  Lord 
Toggery's  coat ! 

Actors  of  the  lower  sort  affect  very  much  braiding  and 
fur  collars  to  their  frock-coats ;  and  a  very  curious  and 
instructive  sight  it  is  to  behold  these  personages  with  pale 
lean  faces,  and  hats  cocked  on  one  side,  in  a  sort  of  pseudo- 
military  trim.  One  sees  many  such  sauntering  under 
Drury  Lane  Colonnade,  or  about  Bow  Street,  with  sickly 
smiles  on  their  faces.  Poor  fellows,  poor  fellows  !  how 
much  of  their  character  is  embroidered  in  that  seedy  braid- 
ing of  their  coats  !  Near  five  o'clock,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  E-upert  Street  and  the  Haymarket,  you  may  still  occa- 
sionally see  the  old,  shabby,  manly,  gentlemanly,  half-pay 
frock  :  but  the  braid  is  now  growing  scarce  in  London ;  and 
your  military  man,  with  reason  perhaps,  dresses  more  like 
a  civilian  ;  and,  understanding  life  better,  and  the  means  of 
making  his  half-crown  go  as  far  as  five  shillings  in  former 
days,  has  usually  a  club  to  dine  at,  and  leaves  Eupert  Street 
eating-houses  to  persons  of  a  different  grade,  —  to  some  of 
those  dubious  dandies  whom  one  sees  swaggering  in  Eegent 
Street  in  the  afternoon,  or  to  those  gay  spruce  gentlemen 
whom  you  encounter  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  at  ten  min- 
utes after  five,  on  their  way  westward  from  the  City.  Look 
at  the  same  hour  at  the  Temple,  and  issuing  thence  and 
from  Essex  Street  you  behold  many  scores  of  neat  barris- 
ters, who  are  walking  to  the  joint  and  half  a  pint  of  Mar- 
sala at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Club.  They  are  gener- 
ally tall,  slim,  proper,  well-dressed  men,  but  their  coats  are 
too  prim  and  professionally  cut.  Indeed,  I  have  generally 
remarked  that  their  clerks,  who  leave  chambers  about  the 
same  time,  have  a  far  more  rakish  and  fashionable  air ;  and 
if,  my  dear  madam,  you  will  condescend  to  take  a  beefsteak 
at  the  "  Cock,"  or  at  some  of  the  houses  around  Covent 
Garden,  you  will  at  once  allow  that  this  statement  is 
perfectly  correct. 

I  have  always  had  rather  a  contempt  for  a  man  who,  on 
arriving  at  home,  deliberately  takes  his  best  coat  from  his 
back  and  adopts  an  old  and  shabby  one.  It  is  a  mean  pre- 
caution.    Unless  very  low  in  the  world  indeed,  one  should 


MEN  AND   COATS.  355 

be  above  a  proceeding  so  petty.  Once  I  knew  a  French 
lady  very  smartly  dressed  in  a  black  velvet  pelisse,  a  person 
whom  I  admired  very  much,  —  and  indeed  for  the  matter 
of  that  she  was  very  fond  of  me,  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there,  —  I  say  I  knew  a  French  lady  of  some  repute 
who  used  to  wear  a  velvet  pelisse,  and  how  do  you  think 
the  back  of  it  was  arranged  ? 

Why,  pelisses  are  worn,  as  you  know,  very  full  behind; 
and  Madame  de  Tournuronval  had  actually  a  strip  of  black 
satin  let  into  the  hinder  part  of  her  dress,  over  which  the 
velvet  used  to  close  with  a  spring  when  she  walked  or 
stood,  so  that  the  satin  was  invisible.  But  when  she  sat 
on  a  chair,  especially  one  of  the  cane-bottomed  species, 
Euphemia  gave  a  loose  to  her  spring,  the  velvet  divided  on 
each  side,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  satin. 

Was  it  an  authorized  stratagem  of  millinery  ?  Is  a 
woman  under  any  circumstances  permitted  to  indulge  in 
sucli  a  manoeuvre  ?  I  sa}',  Xo.  A  woman  with  such  a 
gown  is  of  a  mean  deceitful  character.  Of  a  woman  who 
has  a  black  satin  patch  behind  her  velvet  gown,  it  is  right 
that  one  should  speak  ill  behind  the  back ;  and  when  I  saw 
Euphemia  Tournuronval  spread  out  her  wings  (iioii  nsitatcp 
pennrr,  but  what  else  to  call  them  ?)  —  spread  out  her  skirts 
and  insure  them  from  injury  by  means  of  this  dastardly 
ruse,  I  quitted  the  room  in  disgust,  and  never  was  intimate 
with  her  as  before.  A  widow  I  know  she  was  ;  I  am  cer- 
tain she  looked  sweet  upon  me ;  and  she  said  she  had  a 
fortune,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  Away  with  parsimonious 
ostentation  !  That  woman,  had  I  married  her,  would  either 
have  turned  out  a  swindler,  or  we  should  have  had  houilll 
iive  times  a  week  for  dinner,  —  houilli  off  silver,  and  hungry 
lackeys  in  lace  looking  on  at  the  windy  meal ! 

The  old  coat  plan  is  not  so  base  as  the  above  female 
arrangement ;  but,  say  what  you  will,  it  is  not  high-minded 
and  honorable  to  go  out  in  a  good  coat,  to  flaunt  the  streets 
in  it  with  an  easy  degage  air,  as  if  you  always  wore  such, 
and,  returning  home,  assume  another  under  pretext  of  dress- 
ing for  dinner.  There  is  no  harm  in  putting  on  your  old 
coat  of  a  morning,  or  in  wearing  one  always.  Common 
reason  points  out  the  former  precaution,  which  is  at  once 
modest  and  manly.  If  your  coat  pinches  you,  there  is  no 
harm  in  changing  it ;  if  you  are  going  out  to  dinner,  there 
is  no  harm  in  changing  it  for  a  better.  But  I  say  the  plan 
of  habitual  changing  is  a  base  one,  and  only  fit  for  a  man  at 


356  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

last  extremities ;  or  for  a  clerk  in  the  City,  who  hangs  up 
his  best  garment  on  a  peg,  both  at  the  office  and  at  home  ; 
or  for  a  man  who  smokes,  and  has  to  keep  his  coat  for  tea- 
parties,  —  a  paltry  precaution,  however,  this.  If  you  like 
smoking,  why  shouldn't  you  ?  If  you  do  smell  a  little  of 
tobacco,  Where's  the  harm  ?  The  smell  is  not  pleasant,  but 
it  does  not  kill  anybody.  If  the  lady  of  the  house  do  not 
like  it,  she  is  quite  at  liberty  not  to  invite  you  again.  JSt 
puis?  Bah!  Of  what  age  are  you  and  I?  Have  we 
lived  ?  Have  we  seen  men  and  cities  ?  Have  we  their 
manners  noted,  and  understood  their  idiosyncrasy  ?  With- 
out a  doubt !  And  what  is  the  truth  at  which  we  have 
arrived  ?  This,  —  that  a  pipe  of  tobacco  is  many  an  hour 
in  the  day,  and  many  a  week  in  the  month,  a  thousand 
times  better  and  more  agreeable  society  than  the  best  Miss, 
the  loveliest  Mrs.,  the  most  beautiful  Baroness,  Countess, 
or  what  not.  Go  to  tea-parties,  those  who  will;  talk 
fiddle-faddle,  such  as  like ;  many  men  there  are  who  do  so, 
and  are  a  little  partial  to  music,  and  know  how  to  twist  the 
leaf  of  the  song  that  Miss  Jemima  is  singing  exactly  at  the 
right  moment.  Very  good.  These  are  the  enjoyments  of 
dress-coats ;  but  me?^,  —  are  they  to  be  j^ut  off  with  such 
fare  forever  ?  No  !  One  goes  out  to  dinner,  because  one 
likes  eating  and  drinking ;  because  the  very  act  of  eating 
and  drinking  opens  the  heart,  and  causes  the  tongue  to  wag. 
But  evening  parties  !  Oh,  milk  and  water,  bread  and 
butter  !  No,  no,  the  age  is  wiser  !  The  manly  youth  fre- 
quents his  club  for  common  society,  has  a  small  circle  of 
amiable  ladies  for  friendly  intercourse,  his  book  and  his 
pipe  always. 

Do  not  be  angry,  ladies,  that  one  of  your  most  ardent 
and  sincere  admirers  should  seem  to  speak  disparagingly 
of  your  merits,  or  recommend  his  fellows  to  shun  the 
society  in  which  you  ordinarily  assemble.  No,  miss,  I  am 
the  man  who  respects  you  truly,  —  the  man  who  respects 
and  loves  you  when  you  are  most  lovely  and  respectable, 

—  in  your  families,  my  dears.  A  wife,  a  mother,  a  daugh- 
ter, —  has  God  made  anything  more  beautiful  ?     A  friend, 

—  can  one  find  a  truer,  kinder,  a  more  generous  and  en- 
thusiastic one,  than  a  woman  often  will  be  ?  All  that  has 
to  do  with  your  hearts  is  beautiful,  and  in  everything  with 
which  they  meddle  a  man  must  be  a  brute  not  to  love  and 
honor  you. 

But  Miss  Rudge  in  blue  crape,  squeaking  romances  at  a 


MEX  AND   COATS.  357 

harp,  or  Miss  Tobiu  dancing  in  a  quadrille,  or  Miss  Blogg 
twisting  round  the  room  in  the  arms  of  a  lumbering  Life- 
guardsman  ;  —  what  are  these  ?  —  so  many  vanities.  With 
the  operations  here  described  the  heart  has  nothing  to  do. 
Has  the  intellect  ?  0  ye  gods  I  think  of  Miss  Rudge's  in- 
tellect while  singing,  — 

"  Away,  away  to  the  mountain's  brow, 
Where  the  trees  are  gently  waving; 
Away,  away  to  the  fountain's  flow, 
Where  the  streams  are  softly  la-a-ving!" 

These  are  the  words  of  a  real  song  that  I  have  heard  many 
times,  and  rapturously  applauded  too.  Such  a  song,  such 
a  poem,  —  such  a  songster  ! 

No,  madam,  if  I  want  to  hear  a  song  sung,  I  will  pay 
eight  and  sixpence  and  listen  to  Tamburini  and  Persiani. 
I  will  not  pay,  gloves,  three  and  six ;  cab,  there  and  back, 
four  shillings  ;  silk  stockings  every  now  and  then,  say  a 
shilling  a  time  :  I  will  not  pay  to  hear  Miss  Rudge  screech 
such  disgusting  twaddle  as  the  above.  If  I  want  to  see 
dancing,  there  is  Taglioni  for  my  money ;  or  across  the 
water,  ]\[rs.  Serle  and  her  forty  pupils ;  or  at  Covent  Gar- 
den, Madame  Vedy,  beautiful  as  a  houri,  dark-eyed  and 
agile  as  a  gazelle.  I  can  see  all  these  in  comfort,  and  they 
dance  a  great  deal  better  than  Miss  Blogg  and  Captain 
Haggerty,  the  great  red-whiskered  monster  who  always 
"w^ears  nankeens  because  he  thinks  his  legs  are  fine.  If  I 
"want  conversation,  what  has  Miss  Flock  to  say  to  me,  for- 
sooth, between  the  figures  of  a  cursed  quadrille  that  we 
are  all  so  gravely  dancing  ?  By  heavens,  what  an  agony  it 
is  !  Look  at  the  he-dancers,  they  seem  oppressed  with 
dreadful  care.  Look  at  the  cavalier  seul !  if  the  operation 
lasted  long  the  man's  hair  would  turn  white,  —  he  would 
go  mad !  And  is  it  for  this  that  men  and  women  assemble 
in  multitudes,  for  this  sorry  pastime  ? 

Xo !  dance  as  you  will.  Miss  Smith,  and  swim  through 
the  quadrille  like  a  swan,  or  flutter  through  the  galop  like 
a  sylphide,  and  have  the  most  elegant  fresh  toilets,  the 
most  brilliantly  polished  white  shoulders,  the  blandest  eyes, 
the  reddest,  simperingest  mouth,  the  whitest  neck,  the  — 
in  fact,  I  say,  be  as  charming  as  you  will,  that  is  not  the 
place  in  which,  if  you  are  worth  anything,  you  are  most 
charming.     You  are  beautiful :  you  are  verv  much  decolle- 


358  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

tee  ;  your  eyes  are  always  glancing  down  at  a  pretty  pearl 
necklace,  round  a  pearly  neck,  or  on  a  fresh  fragrant  bou- 
quet, stuck  —  fiddlestick  !  What  is  it  that  the  men  admire 
in  you?  —  the  animal,  miss, — the  white,  plump,  external 
Smith,  which  men  with  their  eye-glasses,  standing  at  various 
parts  of  the  room,  are  scanning  pertly  and  curiously,  and 
of  which  they  are  speaking  brutally.  A  pretty  admiration, 
truly  !  But  is  it  possible  that  these  men  can  admire  any- 
thing else  in  you  who  have  so  much  that  is  really  admira- 
ble ?  Cracknell,  in  the  course  of  the  waltz,  has  just  time 
to  pant  into  your  ear,  "  Were  you  at  Ascot  Races  ?  "  Kid- 
winter,  who  dances  two  sets  of  quadrilles  with  you,  whis- 
pers to  you,  "Do  you  pwefer  thtwawbewy  ithe  aw  wath- 
bewy  ithe  ?  '^  and  asks  the  name  of  "  that  gweat  enawmuth 
fat  woman  in  wed  thatin  and  bird  of  pawadithe  ? "  to 
which  you  reply,  "  Law,  sir,  it's  mamma !  "  The  rest  of 
the  evening  passes  away  in  conversation  similarly  edifying. 
What  can  any  of  the  men  admire  in  you,  you  silly  creature, 
but  the  animal  ?  There  is  your  mother,  now,  in  red  and  a 
bird  of  paradise,  as  Kidwinter  says.  She  has  a  large  fan, 
which  she  flaps  to  and  fro  across  a  broad  chest ;  and  has 
one  eye  directed  to  her  Amelia,  dancing  with  Kidwinter 
before  mentioned;  another  watching  Jane,  who  is  dan- 
cing vis-a-vis  with  Major  Cutts ;  and  a  third  complacently 
cast  upon  Edward,  who  is  figuring  with  Miss  Binx  in  the 
other  quadrille.  How  the  dear  fellow  has  grown,  to  be 
sure  ;  and  how  like  his  papa  at  his  age  —  heigh-ho  !  There 
is  mamma,  the  best  woman  breathing ;  but  fat,  and  even 
enormous,  as  has  been  said  of  her.  Does  anybody  gaze  on 
her  ?  And  yet  she  was  once  as  slim  and  as  fair  as  you,  0 
simple  Amelia  ! 

Does  anybody  care  for  her  ?  Yes,  one.  Your  father 
cares  for  her;  Smith  cares  for  her;  and  in  his  eyes  she  is 
still  the  finest  woman  of  the  room ;  and  he  remembers 
when  he  danced  down  seven  and  forty  couples  of  a  country- 
dance  with  her,  two  years  before  you  were  born  or  thought 
of.  But  it  was  all  chance  that  Miss  Hopkins  turned  out 
to  be  the  excellent  creature  she  was.  Smith  did  not  know 
any  more  than  that  she  was  gay,  plump,  good-looking,  and 
had  five  thousand  pounds.  Hit  or  miss,  he  took  her,  and 
has  had  assuredly  no  cause  to  complain ;  but  she  might 
have  been  a  Borgia  or  Joan  of  Naples,  and  have  had  the 
same  smiling  looks  and  red  cheeks  and  five  thousand 
pounds,  which  won  his  heart  in  the  year  1814. 


MEN  AND   COATS.  359 

The  system  of  evening  parties,  then,  is  a  false  and  ab- 
surd one.  Ladies  may  frequent  them  professionally  with 
an  eye  to  a  husband,  but  a  man  is  an  ass  who  takes  a  wife 
out  of  such  assemblies,  having  no  other  means  of  judging 
of  the  object  of  his  choice.  You  are  not  the  same  person 
in  your  white  crape  and  satin  slip  as  you  are  in  your  morn- 
ing dress.  A  man  is  not  the  same  in  his  tight  coat  and 
feverish  glazed  pumps,  and  stiff  white  waistcoat,  as  he  is 
in  his  green  double-breasted  frock,  his  old  black  ditto,  or 
his  woollen  jacket.  And  a  man  is  doubly  an  ass  wlio  is  in 
the  habit  of  frequenting  evening  parties,  unless  he  is  forced 
thither  in  search  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  is  attached,  or  unless 
he  is  compelled  to  go  by  his  wife.  A  man  who  loves  dan- 
cing may  be  set  down  to  be  an  ass ;  and  the  fashion  is 
greatly  going  out  with  the  increasing  good  sense  of  the 
age.  Do  not  say  that  he  who  lives  at  home,  or  frequents 
clubs  in  lieu  of  balls,  is  a  brute,  and  has  not  a  proper  respect 
for  the  female  sex  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  may  respect  it  most 
sincerely.  He  feels  that  a  woman  appears  to  most  advan- 
tage, not  among  those  whom  she  cannot  care  about,  but 
among  those  whom  she  loves.  He  thinks  her  beautiful 
when  she  is  at  home  making  tea  for  her  old  father.  He 
believes  her  to  be  charming  when  she  is  singing  a  simple 
song  at  her  piano,  but  not  when  she  is  screeching  at  an 
evening  party.  He  thinks  by  far  the  most  valuable  part  of 
her  is  her  heart;  and  a  kind  simple  heart,  my  dears,  shines 
in  conversation  better  than  the  best  of  wit.  He  admires 
her  best  in  her  intercourse  with  her  family  and  friends, 
and  detests  the  miserable  twaddling  slipslop  that  he  is 
obliged  to  hear  from  and  utter  to  her  in  the  course  of  a 
ball ;  and  avoids  and  despises  such  meetings. 

He  keeps  his  evening  coat,  then,  for  dinners.  And  if 
this  friendly  address  to  all  the  mothers  who  read  this  mis- 
cellany may  somewhat  be  acted  upon  by  them ;  if  heads  of 
families,  instead  of  spending  hundreds  upon  chalking  floors, 
and  Gunter,  and  cold  suppers,  and  Weippert's  band,  will 
determine  upon  giving  a  series  of  plain,  neat,  nice  dinners, 
of  not  too  many  courses,  but  well  cooked,  of  not  too  many 
wines,  but  good  of  their  sort,  and  according  to  the  giver's 
degree,  they  will  see  that  the  young  men  will  come  to  them 
fast  enough  ;  that  they  will  marry  their  daughters  quite  as 
fast,  without  injuring  their  health,  and  that  they  will  make 
a  saving  at  the  year's  end.  I  say  that  young  men,  young 
women,  and  heads  of  families  should  bless  me  for  pointing 


360  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

out  this  obvious  plau  to  them,  so  natural,  so  hearty,  so  hos- 
pitable, so  diiferent  to  the  present  artificial  mode. 

A  grand  ball  in  a  palace  is  splendid,  generous,  and  noble, 
—  a  sort  of  procession  in  which  people  may  figure  properly. 
A  family  dance  is  a  pretty  and  pleasant  amusement ;  and 
(especially  after  dinner)  it  does  the  philosopher's  heart 
good  to  look  upon  merry  young  people  who  know  each 
other,  and  are  happy,  natural,  and  familiar.  But  a  Baker 
Street  hop  is  a  base  invention,  and  as  such  let  it  be  de- 
nounced and  avoided. 

A  dressing-gown  has  great  merits,  certainly,  but  it  is 
dangerous.  A  man  who  wears  it  of  mornings  generally 
takes  the  liberty  of  going  without  a  neckcloth,  or  of  not 
shaving,  and  is  no  better  than  a  driveller.  Sometimes,  to 
be  sure,  it  is  necessary,  in  self-defence,  not  to  shave,  as  a 
precaution  against  yourself,  that  is  to  say  ;  and  I  know  no 
better  means  of  insuring  a  man's  remaining  at  home  than 
neglecting  the  use  of  the  lather  and  razor  for  a  week,  and 
encouraging  a  croj)  of  bristles.  When  I  wrote  my  tragedy, 
I  shaved  off  for  the  last  two  acts  my  left  eyebrow,  and 
never  stirred  out  of  doors  until  it  had  grown  to  be  a  great 
deal  thicker  than  its  right-hand  neighbor.  But  this  was  an 
extreme  precaution,  and  unless  a  man  has  very  strong  rea- 
sons indeed  for  stopping  at  home,  and  a  very  violent  pro- 
pensity to  gadding,  his  best  plan  is  to  shave  every  morn- 
ing neatly,  to  put  on  his  regular  coat,  and  go  regularly  to 
work,  and  to  avoid  a  dressing-gown  as  the  father  of  all 
evil.  Painters  are  the  only  persons  who  can  decently  ap- 
pear in  dressing-gowns  ;  but  these  are  none  of  your  easy 
morning-gowns ;  they  are  commonly  of  splendid  stuff,  and 
put  on  by  the  artist  in  order  to  render  himself  remarkable 
and  splendid  in  the  eyes  of  his  sitter.  Your  loose-wadded 
German  schlafrock,  imported  of  late  years  into  our  country, 
is  the  laziest,  filthiest  invention ;  and  I  always  augur  as  ill 
of  a  man  whom  I  see  appearing  at  breakfast  in  one,  as  of  a 
woman  who  comes  downstairs  in  curl-papers. 

By  the  way,  in  the  third  act  of  "  Macbeth,"  Mr.  Mac- 
ready  makes  his  appearance  in  the  courtyard  of  Glamis 
Castle  in  an  affair  of  brocade  that  has  always  struck  me  as 
absurd  and  un-Macbethlike.  Mac  in  a  dressing-gown  (I 
mean  'Beth,  not  'Eeady),  — Mac  in  list  slippers,  —  Mac  in 
a  cotton  nightcap,  with  a  tassel  bobbing  up  and  down, — I 
say  the  thought  is  unworthy,  and  am  sure  the  worthy  thane 
would  have  come  out,  if  suddenly  called  from  bed,  by  any 


MEN  AND   COATS.  361 

circumstance,  however  painful,  in  a  (/ood  stout  Jacket.  It  is 
a  more  manly,  simple,  and  majestic  wear  than  the  lazy 
dressing-gown  ;  it  more  becomes  a  man  of  Macbeth's  moun- 
tainous habits ;  it  leaves  his  legs  quite  free,  to  run  whither- 
soever he  pleases,  —  whether  to  the  stables,  to  look  at  the 
animals,  —  to  the  farm,  to  see  the  pig  that  has  been  slaugh- 
tered that  morning,  —  to  the  garden,  to  examine  whether 
that  scoundrel  of  a  John  Hoskins  has  dug  up  the  potato- 
bed,  —  to  the  nursery,  to  have  a  romp  with  the  little  j\Iac- 
beths  that  are  spluttering  and  quarrelling  over  their  por- 
ridge, —  or  whither  you  will.  A  man  in  a  jacket  is  fit 
company  for  anybody ;  there  is  no  shame  about  it  as 
about  being  seen  in  a  changed  coat ;  it  is  simple,  steady, 
and  straightforward.  It  is,  as  I  have  stated,  all  over 
pockets,  which  contain  everything  you  want :  in  one,  your 
buttons,  hammer,  small  nails,  thread,  twine,  and  cloth- 
strips  for  the  trees  on  the  south  wall;  in  another,  your 
dog-wliip  and  whistle,  your  knife,  cigar-case,  gingerbread 
for  the  children,  paper  of  Epsom  salts  for  John  Hoskins's 
mother,  wlio  is  mortal  bad,  —  and  so  on  :  there  is  no  end 
to  the  pockets,  and  to  the  things  you  put  in  them.  Walk 
about  in  your  jacket,  and  meet  what  person  you  will,  you 
assume  at  once  an  independent  air;  and,  thrusting  your 
hands  into  the  receptacle  that  flaps  over  each  hip,  look  the 
visitor  in  the  face,  and  talk  to  the  ladies  on  a  footing  of 
perfect  equality.  AVhereas,  look  at  tlie  sneaking  way  in 
which  a  man  caught  in  a  dressing-gown,  in  loose  bagging 
trousers  most  likely  (for  the  man  who  has  a  dressing-gown 
has,  two  to  one,  no  braces),  and  in  shuffling  slippers,  —  see 
how  he  whisks  his  dressing-gown  over  his  legs,  and  looks 
ashamed  and  uneasy.  His  lanky  hair  hangs  over  his 
blowzy,  fat,  shining,  unhealthy  face  ;  his  bristly  dumpling- 
shaped  double-chin  peers  over  a  flaccid  shirt-collar;  the 
sleeves  of  his  gown  are  in  rags,  and  you  see  underneath 
a  pair  of  black  wristbands,  and  the  rim  of  a  dingy  flannel 
waistcoat. 

A  man  who  is  not  strictly  neat  in  his  person  is  not  an 
honest  man.  I  shall  not  enter  into  this  very  ticklish  sub- 
ject of  personal  purification  and  neatness,  because  this 
essay  will  be  read  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  ladies  as 
well  as  men  ;  and  for  the  former  I  would  wish  to  provide 
nothing  but  pleasure.  Men  may  listen  to  stern  truths ; 
but  for  ladies  one  should  only  speak  verities  that  are 
sparkling,  rosy,  brisk,  and  agreeable.     A  man  who  wears  a 


362  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

dressing-gown  is  not  neat  in  his  appearance ;  his  morai 
character  takes  invariably  some  of  the  slatternliness  and 
looseness  of  his  costume  ;  he  becomes  enervated,  lazy,  in- 
capable of  great  actions ;  a  man  in  a  jacket  is  a  man. 
All  great  men  wore  jackets.  Walter  Scott  wore  a  jacket, 
as  everybody  knows  ;  Byron  wore  a  jacket  (not  that  1  count 
a  man  who  turns  down  his  collars  for  much)  ;  I  have  a 
picture  of  Napoleon  in  a  jacket  at  Saint  Helena;  Thomas 
Carlyle  wears  a  jacket ;  Lord  John  Russell  always  mounts 
a  jacket  on  arriving  at  the  Colonial  Office ;  and  if  I  have 
a  single  fault  to  find  with  that  popular  writer,  the  author 

of never  mind  what,  you  know  his  name,  as  well  as  I, 

—  it  is  that  he  is  in  the  habit  of  composing  his  works  in  a 
large-flowered  damask  dressing-gown,  and  morocco  slippers  ; 
whereas  in  a  jacket  he  would  write  you  off  something,  not 
so  flowery,  if  you  please,  but  of  honest  texture,  —  some- 
thing, not  so  long,  but  terse,  modest,  and  comfortable,  — 
no  great,  long  strealing  tails  of  periods,  —  no  staring 
peonies  and  hollyhocks  of  illustrations,  — no  flaring  cords 
and  tassels  of  episodes,  —  no  great,  dirty,  wadded  sleeves 
of  sentiment,  ragged  at  the  elbows  and  cuffs,  and  mopping 
up  everything  that  comes  in  their  way,  —  cigar-ashes,  ink, 
candle-wax,  cold  brandy  and  water,  coffee,  or  whatever 
aids  to  the  brain  he  may  employ  as  a  literary  man  ;  not  to 
mention  the  quantity  of  tooth-powder,  whisker-dye,  soap- 
suds, and  pomatum  that  the  same  garment  receives  in  the 
course  of  the  toilets  at  which  it  assists.  Let  all  literary 
men,  then,  get  jackets.  I  prefer  them  without  tails  ;  but 
do  not  let  this  interfere  with  another  man's  pleasure :  he 
may  have  tails  if  he  likes,  and  I  for  one  will  never  say 
him  nay. 

Like  all  things,  however,  jackets  are  subject  to  abuse  ; 
and  the  pertness  and  conceit  of  those  jackets  cannot  be 
sufficiently  reprehended  which  one  sees  on  the  backs  of 
men  at  watering-places,  with  a  telescope  poking  out  of  one 
pocket,  and  a  yellow  bandanna  flaunting  from  the  other. 
Nothing  is  more  contemptible  than  Tims  in  a  jacket,  with 
a  blue  bird's-eye  neck-handkerchief  tied  sailor-fashion, 
puffing  smoke  like  a  steamer,  with  his  great  broad  orbicu- 
lar stern  shining  in  the  sun.  I  always  long  to  give  the 
wretch  a  smart  smack  upon  that  part  where  his  coat-tails 
ought  to  be,  and  advise  him  to  get  into  a  more  decent 
costume.  There  is  an  age  and  a  figure  for  jackets ;  those 
who  are  of  a  certain  build  should  not  wear  them  in  public. 


MEN  AND   COATS.  363 

Witness  fat  officers  of  the  dragoon-guards  that  one  has 
seen  bumping  up  and  down  the  Steyne,  at  Brighton,  on 
their  great  chargers,  with  a  laced  and  embroidered  coat,  a 
cartridge-box,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  of  the  size  of  a  two- 
penny loaf,  placed  on  the  small  of  their  backs,  —  if  their 
backs  may  be  said  to  have  a  small,  — and  two  little  twink- 
ling abortions  of  tails  pointing  downwards  to  the  enormity 
jolting  in  the  saddle.  Officers  should  be  occasionally  meas- 
ured, and  after  passing  a  certain  width  should  be  drafted 
into  other  regiments,  or  allowed  —  nay,  ordered  —  to  wear 
frock-coats. 

The  French  tailors  make  frock-coats  very  well,  but  the 
people  who  wear  them  have  the  disgusting  habit  of  wearing 
stays,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  unbecoming  the 
dignity  of  man.  Look  what  a  waist  the  Apollo  has,  not 
above  four  inches  less  in  the  girth  than  the  chest  is. 
Look,  ladies,  at  the  waist  of  the  Venus,  and  pray,  —  pray 
do  not  pinch  in  your  dear  little  ribs  in  that  odious  and 
unseemly  way.  In  a  young  man  a  slim  waist  is  very  well ; 
and  if  he  looks  like  the  Eddystone  lighthouse,  it  is  as 
nature  intended  him  to  look.  A  man  of  certain  age  may 
be  built  like  a  tower,  stalwart  and  straight.  Then  a  man's 
middle  may  expand  from  the  pure  cylindrical  to  the  bar- 
rel sha^^e ;  well,  let  him  be  content.  Nothing  is  so  horrid 
as  a  fat  man  with  a  band ;  an  hour-glass  is  a  most  mean 
and  ungracious  figure.  Daniel  Lambert  is  ungracious,  but 
not  mean.  One  meets  with  some  men  who  look  in  their 
frock-coats  perfectly  sordid,  sneaking,  and  ungentleman- 
like,  who  if  you  see  them  dressed  for  an  evening  have  a 
slim,  easy,  almost  fashionable,  appearance.  Set  these  per- 
sons down  as  fellows  of  poor  spirit  and  milksops.  Stiff 
white  ties  and  waistcoats,  prim  straight  tails,  and  a  gold 
chain  will  give  any  man  of  moderate  lankiness  an  air  of 
factitious  gentility  ;  but  if  you  want  to  understand  the  in- 
dividual, look  at  him  in  the  daytime ;  see  him  walking 
with  his  hat  on.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  build  and 
wearing  of  hats,  a  great  deal  more  than  at  first  meets  the 
eye.  I  know  a  man  who  in  a  particular  hat  looked  so  ex- 
traordinarily like  a  man  of  property,  that  no  tradesman  on 
earth  could  refuse  to  give  him  credit.  It  was  one  of 
Andre's,  and  cost  a  guinea  and  a  half  ready  money ;  but 
the  person  in  question  was  frightened  at  the  enormous 
charge,  and  afterwards  purchased  beavers  in  the  City  at 
the  cost  of    seventeen  and  sixpence.     And  what  was  the 


364  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

consequence  ?  He  fell  off  in  public  estimation,  and  very 
soon  after  lie  came  out  in  his  City  hat  it  began  to  be 
whispered  abroad  that  he  was  a  ruined  man. 

A  blue  coat  is,  after  all,  the  best ;  but  a  gentleman  of  my 
acquaintance  has  made  his  fortune  by  an  Oxford  mixture, 
of  all  colors  in  the  world,  with  a  pair  of  white  buckskin 
gloves.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  just  got  off  his  horse,  and 
as  if  he  had  three  thousand  a  year  in  the  country.  There 
is  a  kind  of  proud  humility  in  an  Oxford  mixture.  Velvet 
collars,  and  all  such  gimcracks,  had  best  be  avoided  by 
sober  people.  This  paper  is  not  written  for  drivelling 
dandies,  but  for  honest  men.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
philosophy  and  forethought  in  Sir  Eobert  Peel's  dress ;  he 
does  not  wear  those  white  waistcoats  for  nothing,  I  say 
that  O'Connell's  costume  is  likewise  that  of  a  profound 
rhetorician,  slouching  and  careless  as  it  seems.  Lord  Mel- 
bourne's air  of  reckless,  good-humored,  don't-care-a-damn- 
ativenesss  is  not  obtained  without  an  effort.  Look  at  the 
Duke  as  he  passes  along  in  that  stern  little  straight  frock 
and  plaid  breeches ;  look  at  him,  and  off  with  your  hat ! 
How  much  is  there  in  that  little  gray  coat  of  Napoleon's  ! 
A  spice  of  claptrap  and  dandyism,  no  doubt ;  but  we  must 
remember  the  country  which  he  had  to  govern.  I  never 
see  a  picture  of  George  III.,  in  his  old  stout  Windsor 
uniform,  without  feeling  a  respect  ;  or  of  George  IV., 
breeches  and  silk  stockings,  a  wig,  a  sham  smile,  a  frogged 
frock-coat  and  a  fur  collar,  without  that  proper  degree  of 
reverence  which  such  a  costume  should  inspire.  The  coat 
is  the  expression  of  the  man,  —  o'lrjnsq  cpvlXwp^  etc. ;  and  as 
the  peach-tree  throws  out  peach-leaves,  the  pear-tree  pear 
ditto,  as  old  George  appeared  invested  in  the  sober  old  gar- 
ment of  blue  and  red,  so  did  young  George  in  oiled  wigs,  fur 
collars,  stays,  and  braided  surtouts,  according  to  his  nature. 

Enough,  —  enough ;  and  may  these  thoughts,  arising  in 
the  writer's  mind  from  the  possession  of  a  new  coat,  which 
circumstance  caused  him  to  think  not  only  of  new  coats 
but  of  old  ones,  and  of  coats  neither  old  nor  new,  —  and 
not  of  coats  merely,  but  of  men,  —  may  these  thoughts  so 
inspired  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they  have  been  set 
down  on  paper,  and  which  is  not  a  silly  wish  to  instruct  man- 
kind,—  no,  no ;  but  an  honest  desire  to  pay  a  deserving  trades- 
man whose  confidence  supplied  the  garment  in  question. 

Pentonville,  April  25,  1841. 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  365 


DICKENS   IX   FKAXCE. 

Seeing  placarded  on  the  walls  a  huge  announcement 
that  "Nicholas  Xickleby,  ou  les  Voleurs  de  Londres,"  was 
to  be  performed  at  the  Ambigu-Comique  Theatre  on  the 
Boulevard,  and  having  read  in  the  Journal  des  Dehats  a 
most  stern  and  ferocious  criticism  upon  the  piece  in  ques- 
tion, and  upon  poor  ^Monsieur  Dickens,  its  supposed  author, 
it  seemed  to  me  by  no  means  unprofitable  to  lay  out  fifty 
sous  in  the  purchase  of  a  stall  at  the  theatre,  and  to  judge 
with  my  own  eyes  of  the  merits  and  demerits  of  the  play. 

Who  does  not  remember  (except  those  who  never  saw 
the  drama,  and  therefore  of  course  cannot  be  expected  to 
have  any  notion  of  it)  —  who  does  not,  I  say,  remember  the 
pathetic  acting  of  Mrs.  Keeley  in  the  part  of  Smike,  as 
performed  at  the  Adelphi ;  the  obstinate  good-humor  of 
Mr.  Wilkinson,  who,  having  to  represent  the  brutal  Squeers, 
was,  according  to  his  nature,  so  chuckling,  oily,  and  kind- 
hearted,  that  little  boys  must  have  thought  it  a  good  joke 
to  be  flogged  by  him ;  finally,  the  acting  of  the  admirable 
Yates  in  the  kindred  part  of  ^lantalini  ?  Can  France,  I 
thought,  produce  a  fop  equal  to  Yates  ?  Is  there  any  vul- 
garity and  assurance  on  the  Boulevard  that  can  be  com- 
pared to  that  of  which,  in  the  character  of  Mantalini,  he 
gives  a  copy  so  wonderfully  close  to  nature  ?  Xever  then 
were  fifty  sous  more  cheerfully  —  nay,  eagerly  paid,  than 
by  your  obedient  servant. 

After  China,  this  is  the  most  ignorant  country,  thought 
I,  m  the  whole  civilized  world  (the  company  was  dropping 
into  the  theatre,  and  the  musicians  were  one  by  one  taking 
their  seats) ;  these  people  are  so  immensely  conceited,  that 
they  think  the  rest  of  Europe  beneath  them  ;  and  though 
they  have  invaded  Spain,  Italy.  Russia,  Germany,  not  one 
in  ten  thousand  can  ask  for  a  piece  of  bread  in  the  national 
language  of  the  countries  so  conquered.  But  see  the  force 
of  genius  ;  after  a  time  it  conquers  everything,  even  the 
ignorance  and  conceit  of  Frenchmen  !  The  name  of  Nicho- 
las Xickleby  crosses  the  Channel  in  spite  of  them.     I  shall 


366  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

see  honest  Joliii  Browdie  and  wicked  Ealph  once  more, 
honest  and  wicked  in  French.  Shall  we  have  the  Ken- 
wigses,  and  their  nncle,  the  delightful  collector ;  and  will  he, 
in  Portsmouth  Church,  make  that  famous  marriage  with  Juli- 
ana Petowker  ?  Above  all,  what  will  Mrs.  Nickleby  say  ? 
—  the  famous  Mrs.  Nickleb}^,  who  has  lain  undescribed 
until  Boz  seized  upon  her,  and  brought  that  great  truth  to 
light,  and  whom  yet  every  man  possesses  in  the  bosom  of 
his  own  family.  Are  there  Mrs.  Nicklebies  —  or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  are  there  Mistresses  Nickleby  in  France  ? 
We  shall  see  all  this  at  the  rising  of  the  curtain  ;  and 
hark  !  the  fiddlers  are  striking  up. 

Presently  the  prompter  gives  his  three  heart-thrilling 
slaps,  and  the  great  painted  cloth  moves  upwards :  it  is 
always  a  moment  of  awe  and  pleasure.  What  is  coming  ? 
First  you  get  a  glimpse  of  legs  and  feet ;  then  suddenly  the 
owners  of  the  limbs  in  question  in  steady  attitudes,  look- 
ing as  if  they  had  been  there  one  thousand  years  before ; 
now  behold  the  landscape,  the  clouds  ;  the  great  curtain 
vanishes  altogether,  the  charm  is  dissolved,  and  the  disen- 
chanted performers  begin. 


Act  I. 

You  see  a  court  of  a  school,  with  great  iron  bars  in  front, 
and  a  beauteous  sylvan  landscape  beyond.  Could  you  read 
the  writing  on  the  large  board  over  the  gate,  you  would 
know  that  the  school  was  the  "  Paradis  des  Enfans,"  kept 
by  Mr.  Squeers.  Somewhere  by  that  bright  river  which 
meanders  through  the  background  is  the  castle  of  the 
stately  Earl  of  Clarendon  —  no  relation  to  a  late  ambassa- 
dor at  Madrid. 

His  lordship  is  from  home  ;  but  his  young  and  lovely 
daughter,  Miss  Annabella,  is  in  Yorkshire,  and  at  this  very 
moment  is  taking  a  lesson  of  French  from  Mr.  Squeers's 
sous-maitre,  Neekolass  Neeklbee.  Nicholas  is,  however,  no 
vulgar  usher ;  he  is  but  lately  an  orphan ;  and  his  uncle, 
the  rich  London  banker.  Monsieur  Ealph,  taking  charge  of 
the  lad's  portionless  sister,  has  procured  for  Nicholas  this 
place  of  usher  at  a  school  in  le  Yorksheer. 

A  rich  London  banker  procuring  his  nephew  a  place  in  a 
school  at  eight  guineas  per  annum !  Sure  there  must  be  some 
roguery  in  this  ;  and  the  more  so  when  you  know  that  Mon- 


DTCKEXS  IN  FRANCE.  367 

sieur  Squeers,  the  keeper  of  the  academy,  was  a  few  3'ears 
since  a  vulgar  rope-dancer  and  tumbler  at  a  fair.  But,  peace ! 
let  these  mysteries  clear  up,  as,  please  Heaven,  before 
five  acts  are  over  they  will.  Meanwhile  Nicholas  is  happy 
in  giving  his  lessons  to  the  lovely  Mees  Annabel.  Lessons, 
indeed  !  Lessons  of  what  ?  Alack,  alack!  when  two  young, 
handsome,  ardent,  tender-hearted  people  pore  over  the  same 
book,  we  know  what  may  happen,  be  the  book  what  it  ma}-. 
French  or  Hebrew,  there  is  always  one  kind  of  language  in 
the  leaves,  as  those  can  tell  who  have  conned  them. 

Meanwhile,  m  the  absence  of  his  usher.  Monsieur  Squeers 
keeps  school.  But  one  of  his  scholars  is  in  the  courtyard; 
a  lad  beautifully  dressed,  fat,  clean,  and  rosy.  A  gentle- 
man by  the  name  of  Browdie,  by  profession  a  drover,  is 
with  the  boy,  employed  at  the  moment  (for  he  is  at  leisure 
and  fond  of  music)  in  giving  him  a  lesson  on  the  ckwbiet. 

The  boy  tlius  receiving  lessons  is  called  facetiously  by 
his  master  Prospectus,  and  why  ?  Because  he  is  so  exces- 
sively fat  and  healthy,  and  well  clothed,  that  his  mere 
appearance  in  the  courtyard  is  supposed  to  entice  parents 
and  guardians  to  place  their  children  in  a  seminary  where 
the  scholars  were  in  such  admirable  condition. 

And  here  I  cannot  help  observing,  in  the  first  place,  that 
Squeers  exhibiting  in  this  manner  a  sample-boy,  and  pre- 
tending tliat  the  whole  stock  were  like  him  (whereas  they 
are  a  miserable,  half-starved  set),  must  have  been  an  abom- 
inable old  scoundrel ;  and,  secondly  (though  the  observa- 
tion applies  to  the  French  nation  merely,  and  may  be 
considered  more  as  political  than  general),  that  by  way  of 
a  fat  specimen,  never  was  one  more  unsatisfactory  than 
this.  Such  a  poor  shrivelled  creature  I  never  saw;  it  is 
like  a  French  fat  pig,  as  lanky  as  a  greyhound  !  Both  ani- 
mals give  one  a  thorough  contempt  for  the  nation. 

John  Browdie  gives  his  lesson  to  Prospectus,  who  in- 
forms him  of  some  of  the  circumstances  narrated  above ; 
and,  having  concluded  the  lesson,  honest  John  produces  a 
piece  of  puddlnr/  for  his  pupil.  Ah,  how  Prospectus  de- 
vours it !  for  though  the  only  well-fed  boy  in  the  school,  he 
is,  we  regret  to  say,  a  gormandizer  by  disposition. 

While  Prospectus  eats,  another  of  Mr.  Squeers's  scholars 
is  looking  unnoticed  on ;  another  boy,  a  thousand  times  more 
miserable.  See  yon  poor  shivering  child,  trembling  over 
his  book  in  a  miserable  hutch  at  the  corner  of  the  court ! 
He   is    in   rags,  he  is  not  allowed  to  live  with  the  other 


368  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

boys  ;  at  play  they  constantly  buffet  him,  at  lesson-time 
their  blunders  are  visited  upon  his  poor  shoulders. 

Who  is  this  unhappy  boy  ?  Ten  years  since  a  man  by 
the  name  of  Becher  brought  him  to  the  Paradis  des  Enfans  ; 
and,  paying  in  advance  five  years  of  his  pension,  left  him 
under  the  charge  of  Monsieur  Squeers.  No  family  ever 
visited  the  child  ;  and  when  at  the  live  years'  end  the  insti- 
tuteur  applied  at  the  address  given  him  by  Becher  for  the 
further  payment  of  his  pupil's  expenses,  Monsieur  Squeers 
found  that  Becher  had  grossly  deceived  him,  that  no  such 
persons  existed,  and  that  no  money  was  consequently 
forthcoming,  hence  the  misfortunes  which  afterwards  be- 
fell the  hapless  orphan.  None  cared  for  him  —  none 
knew  him,  'tis  possible  that  even  the  name  he  went 
by  was  fictitious.  That  name  was  Smike,  pronounced 
Smeek. 

Poor  Smeek!  he  had,  however,  found  one  friend,  —  the 
kind-hearted  sous-maitre  Neeklbee  —  who  gave  him  half  of 
his  own  daily  pittance  of  bread  and  pudding,  encouraged 
him  to  apply  to  his  books,  and  defended  him  as  much  as 
possible  from  the  assaults  of  the  schoolboys  and  Monsieur 
Squeers. 

John  Browdie  had  just  done  giving  his  lesson  of  clari- 
net to  Prospectus,  when  Neeklbee  arrived  at  the  school. 
There  was  a  difference  between  John  and  Nicholas  5  for 
the  former,  seeing  the  young  usher's  frequent  visits  at 
Clarendon  Castle,  foolishly  thought  he  was  enamored  of 
Mees  Jenny,  the  fermier's  daugliter,  on  whom  John  too 
had  fixed  an  eye  of  affection.  Silly  John !  Nicholas's 
heart  was  fixed  (hopelessly,  as  the  young  man  thought) 
upon  higher  objects.  However,  the  very  instant  that 
Nickleby  entered  the  courtyard  of  the  school,  John  took 
up  his  stick  and  set  off  for  London,  whither  he  was  bound, 
with  a  drove  of  oxen. 

Nickleby  had  not  arrived  a  whit  too  soon  to  protect  his 
poor  friend,  Smeek ;  all  the  boys  were  called  into  the 
courtyard  by  Monsieur  Squarrs,  and  made  to  say  their 
lessons ;  when  it  came  to  poor  Smeek's  turn,  the  timid  lad 
trembled,  hesitated,  and  could  not  do  his  spelling. 

Inflamed  with  fury,  old  Squarrs  rushed  forward,  and 
would  have  assommed  his  pupil,  but  human  nature  could 
bear  this  tyranny  no  longer.  Nickleby,  stepping  forward, 
defended  the  poor  prostrate  child ;  and  when  Squeers  raised 
his  stick  to  strike  —  pouf  !    pif  !    un,  deux,  trois,  et  la  !  — ' 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  369 

Monsieur  Nicholas  flanqued  him  several  coups  de  poing, 
and  sent  him  bientot  grovelling  l\  terre. 

You  may  be  sure  that  there  was  now  a  pretty  hallooing 
among  the  boys ;  all  jumped,  kicked,  thumped,  bumped, 
and  scratched  their  unhappy  master  (and  serve  him  right, 
too  I),  and  when  they  had  finished  their  fun,  vlan  I  flung 
open  the  gates  of  the  Infants'  Paradise  and  ran  away 
home. 

Xeeklbee,  seeing  what  he  had  done,  had  nothing  left  but 
to  run  away  too :  he  penned  a  hasty  line  to  his  lovely 
pupil,  j\Iiss  Annabel,  to  explain  that  though  his  departure 
was  sudden  his  honor  was  safe,  and  seizing  his  stick  quitted 
the  school. 

There  was  but  one  pupil  left  in  it,  and  he,  poor  soul, 
knew  not  whither  to  go.  But  when  he  saw  Nicholas,  his 
sole  friend,  departing,  he  mustered  courage,  and  then  made 
a  step  forward  —  and  then  wondered  if  he  dared  —  and 
then,  when  Nicholas  was  at  a  little  distance  from  him,  ran, 
ran,  as  if  his  life  (as  indeed  it  did)  depended  upon  it. 

This  is  the  picture  of  Neeklbee  and  poor  Smeek.*  They 
are  both  dressed  in  the  English  fashion,  and  you  must 
fancy  the  curtain  falling  amidst  thunders  of  applause. 
\_End  of  Act  L^ 

"Ah.  ah,  ah!  ouf,  pouf."  —  '•  Dieu,  quil  fait  chaud  !  "  — 
"  Orgeat,  limonade,  biere  !  "  —  "  L'Entracte,  journal  de  tons 
les  spectacles  !  "  —  '•  La  Marseillai-ai-aise  ! "  —  with  such 
cries  from  pit  and  boxes  the  public  wiles  away  the  w^eary 
ten  minutes  between  the  acts.  The  three  bonnes  in  the 
front  boxes,  who  had  been  escorted  by  a  gentleman  in  a 
red  cap,  and  jacket,  and  earrings,  begin  sucking  oranges 
with  great  comfort,  while  their  friend  amuses  himself  with 
a  piece  of  barlej^-sugar.  The  petite-maUresse  in  the  private 
box  smooths  her  bandeaux  of  hair  and  her  little  trim, 
white  cuffs,  and  looks  at  her  chiffons.  The  friend  of  the 
tight  black  velvet  spencer,  meanwhile,  pulls  his  yellow  kid 
gloves  tighter  on  his  hands,  and  looks  superciliously  round 
tlie  house  with  his  double-glass.  Fourteen  people,  all  smell- 
ing of  smoke,  all  bearded,  and  all  four  feet  high,  pass  over 
your  body  to  their  separate  stalls.  The  prompter  gives  his 
thumps,  whack  —  whack — whack!  the  music  begins  again, 
the  curtain  draws,  and,  lo  !  we  have 

*  Referrin.s  to  a  sketch,  the  first  of  two  sketches  by  the  author,  which 
acoompauied  this  paper  ou  its  original  appearance  in  Fraser's  Marjazine. 
—  Ed. 


370  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Act  II. 

The  tavern  of  Les  Amies  du  Koi  appears  to  be  one  of  the 
most  frequented  in  the  city  of  London.  It  must  be  in  the 
Yorkshire  road,  that  is  clear ;  for  the  first  person  whom  we 
see  there  is  John  Browdie ;  to  whom  presently  comes  Pro- 
spectus, then  Neeklbee,  then  poor  Smeek,  each  running 
away  individually  from  the  Paradis  des  Enfans. 

It  is  likewise  at  this  tavern  that  the  great  banker  Kalph 
does  his  business,  and  lets  you  into  a  number  of  his  secrets. 
Hither,  too,  conies  Milor  Clarendon,  —  a  handsome  peer, 
forsooth,  but  a  sad  reprobate,  I  fear.  Sorrow  has  driven 
him  to  these  wretched  courses :  ten  years  since  he  lost  a 
son,  a  lovely  child  of  six  years  of  age ;  and,  hardened  by 
the  loss,  he  has  taken  to  gambling,  to  the  use  of  vi7is  de 
France  which  take  the  reason  prisoner,  and  to  other  excite- 
ments still  more  criminal.  He  has  cast  his  eyes  upon  the 
lovely  Kate  Nickleby  (he,  the  father  of  Miss  Annabel ! ) 
and  asks  the  banker  to  sup  with  him,  to  lend  him  ten 
thousand  pounds,  and  to  bring  his  niece  with  him.  With 
every  one  of  these  requests  the  capitalist  promises  to  com- 
ply :  the  money  he  produces  forthwith ;  the  lady  he  goes  to 
fetch.  Ah,  milor !  beware  —  beware,  your  health  is  bad, 
your  property  is  ruined,  —  death  and  insolvency  stare  you 
in  the  face, — but  what  cares  Lor  Clarendon?  He  is  des- 
perate ;  he  orders  a  splendid  repast  in  a  private  apartment, 
and  while  they  are  getting  it  ready,  he  and  the  young  lords 
of  his  acquaintance  sit  down  and  crack  a  bottle  in  the 
coffee-room.  A  gallant  set  of  gentlemen,  truly,  all  in  short 
coats  with  capes  to  them,  in  tights  and  Hessian  boots,  such 
as  our  nobility  are  in  the  custom  of  wearing. 

"I  bet  you  cinq  cent  guinees,  Lor  Beef,"  says  Milor 
Clarendon  (whom  the  wine  has  begun  to  excite),  "that  I  will 
have  the  lovely  Kate  Nicklbee  at  supper  with  us  to-night." 

"Done!"  says  Lor  Beef.  But  why  starts  yon  stranger 
who  has  just  come  into  the  hotel  ?  Why,  forsooth  ?  be- 
cause he  is  Nicholas  Nickleby,  Kate's  brother  ;  and  a  pretty 
noise  he  makes  when  he  hears  of  his  lordship's  project ! 

"  You  have  Meess  Neeklbee  at  your  table,  sir  ?  You  are 
a  liar  ! " 

All  the  lords  start  up. 

"  Who  is  this  very  strange  person  ?  "  says  Milor  Claren- 
don, as  cool  as  a  cucumber. 

"  Dog  !  give  me  your  name  !  "  shouts  Nicholas. 


DICKENS   IX  FRANCE.  371 

Ha  I  ha  I  ha  ! "  says  my  lord  scornfully. 

"  John,"  says  Xickleby,  seizing  hold  of  a  waiter,  "  tell 
me  that  man's  name." 

John  the  waiter  looks  frightened,  and  hums  and  ha's, 
wlien,  at  the  moment,  who  should  walk  in  but  Mr.  Ealph 
the  banker,  and  his  niece. 

Raljyh.     "  Nicholas  !  —  confusion  ! " 

Kate.     "  My  brother  !  " 

Nicholas.  '•  Avaunt,  woman  I  Tell  me,  sirrah,  by  what 
right  you  bring  my  sister  into  such  company,  and  who  is 
the  villain  to  whom  you  have  presented  her  ?  " 

Ralph.     "Lord  Clarendon.''' 

Nicholas.  "The  father  of  ^[eess  Annabel?  Gracious 
heaven  I  " 

What  followed  now  need  not  be  explained.  The  young 
lords  and  the  banker  retire  abashed  to  their  supper,  while 
Meess  Kate,  and  Smike,  who  has  just  arrived,  fall  into  the 
arms  of  Nicholas. 

Such,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  the  second  act,  rather 
feeble  in  interest,  and  not  altogether  probable  in  action. 
That  five  people  running  away  from  Yorkshire  should  all 
come  to  the  same  inn  in  London,  arriving  within  five  min- 
utes of  each  other,  —  that  Mr.  Ralph,  the  great  banker, 
should  make  the  hotel  his  place  of  business,  and  openly 
confess  in  the  coffee-room  to  his  ex-agent  Becher  that  he 
had  caused  Becher  to  make  away  with  or  murder  the  son 
of  Lord  Clarendon,  —  finally,  that  Lord  Clarendon  himself, 
with  an  elegant  town  mansion,  should  receive  his  distin- 
guished guests  in  a  tavern,  of  not  the  first  respectability, — 
all  these  points  may,  perhaps,  strike  the  critic  from  their 
extreme  improbability.  But,  bless  your  soul!  if  these  ave 
improbabilities,  what  will  you  say  to  the  revelations  of  the 

Third  Act. 

That  scoundrel  Squarrs  before  he  kept  the  school  was,  as 
we  have  seen,  a  tumbler  and  saltimhanque,  and,  as  such, 
member  of  the  great  fraternity  of  cadgers,  beggars,  gueux, 
thieves,  that  have  their  club  in  London.  It  is  held  in  im- 
mense Gothic  vaults  under  ground :  here  the  beggars  concert 
their  plans,  divide  their  spoil,  and  hold  their  orgies. 

In  returning  to  London  ^lonsieur  Squarrs  instantly  re- 
sumes his  acquaintance  with  his  old  comrades,  who  appoint 
him,  by  the  all-powerful  interest  of  a,  peculiar  p)erson.  head 
of  the  communitv  of  cadeers. 


372  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

That  person  is  no  other  than  the  banker  Ralph,  who,  in 
secret,  directs  this  godless  crew,  visits  their  haunts,  and 
receives  from  them  a  boundless  obedience.  A  villain  him- 
self, he  has  need  of  the  aid  of  villany.  He  pants  for 
vengeance  against  his  nephew,  he  has  determined  that  his 
niece  shall  fall  a  prey  to  Milor  Clarendon,  —  nay,  more,  he 
has  a  dark  suspicion  that  Smike  —  the  orphan  boy — the 
homeless  fugitive  from  Yorkshire  —  is  no  other  than  the 
child  who  ten  years  ago  —  but,  hush  ! 

Where  is  his  rebellious  nephew  and  those  whom  he  pro- 
tects ?  The  quick  vigilance  of  Ralph  soon  discovered 
them ;  Nicholas,  having  taken  the  name  of  Edward  Browne, 
was  acting  at  a  theatre  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Thames. 
Haste,  Squarrs,  take  a  couple  of  trusty  beggars  with  you, 
and  hie  thee  to  Wapping ;  seize  young  Smike  and  carry 
him  to  Cadger's  Cavern, — haste,  then!  The  mind  shudders 
to  consider  what  is  to  happen. 

In  Nicholas's  room  at  the  theatre  we  find  his  little 
family  assembled,  and  with  them  honest  John  Browdie, 
who  has  forgotten  his  part  on  learning  that  Nicholas  was 
attached,  not  to  the  fermiere,  but  to  the  mistress ;  to  them 
comes  —  gracious  heavens !  —  Meess  Annabel.  "  Fly ! "  says 
she,  "  fly  !  I  have  overheard  a  plot  concocted  between  my 
father  and  your  uncle ;  the  sheriff  is  to  seize  you  for  the 
abduction  of  Smeek  and  the  assault  upon  Squarrs,"  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

In  short,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  describe  this  act,  so 
much  is  there  done  in  it.  Lord  Clarendon  learns  that  he 
has  pledged  his  life  interest  in  his  estates  to  Ralph. 

His  lordship  dies,  and  Ralph  seizes  a  paper,  which  proves 
beyond  a  doubt  that  young  Smike  is  no  other  than  Claren- 
don's long-lost  son. 

Uinfame  Squarrs  with  his  satellites  carry  off  the  boy ; 
Browdie  pitches  Squarrs  into  the  river ;  the  sheriff  carries 
Nickleby  to  prison ;  and  vice  triumphs  in  the  person  of 
the  odious  Ralph.  But  vice  does  not  always  triumph;  wait 
a  while  and  you  will  see.     For  in  the 

Fourth  Act 

John  Browdie,  determined  to  rescue  his  two  young  friends, 
follows  Ralph  like  his  shadow ;  he  dogs  him  to  a  rendez- 
vous of  the  beggars,  and  overhears  all  his  conversation  with 
Squarrs.     The  boy  is  in  the  Cadger's  Cavern,  hidden  a  thou- 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  373 

sand  feet  below  the  Thames ;  there  is  to  be  a  grand  jollifi- 
cation among  the  rogues  that  night  —  a  dance  and  a  feast. 
"7^"  says  John  Browdie,  ''  icill  he  tliereP  And,  wonderful 
to  say,  who  should  pass  but  his  old  friend  Prospectus,  to 
whom  he  gave  lessons  on  the  clarinet. 

Prospectus  is  a  cadger  now,  and  is  to  play  his  clarinet 
that  night  at  Cadger's  Hall.  Browdie  will  join  him,  —  he 
is  dressed  up  like  a  blind  beggar,  and  strange  sights,  Heaven 
knows,  meet  his  eyes  in  Cadger's  Hall. 

Here  they  come  trooping  in  by  scores,  —  the  halt  and  the 
lame,  black  sweepers,  one-legged  fiddlers,  the  climber  mots, 
the  fly-sakers,  the  kedgoree  coves,  —  in  a  word,  the  rogues 
of  London,  to  their  Gothic  hall,  a  thousand  miles  below  the 
level  of  the  sea.  Squarrs  is  their  nominal  head  ;  but  their 
real  leader  is  the  tall  man  yonder  in  the  black  mask,  he 
whom  nobody  knows  but  Browdie,  who  has  found  him  out 
at  once,  —  'tis  Ralph  ! 

"  Bring  out  the  prisoner,"  says  the  black  mask ;  "  he  has 
tried  to  escape  —  he  lias  broken  his  oaths  to  the  cadgers, 
let  him  meet  his  punishment." 

And  without  a  word  more,  what  do  these  cadgers  do  ? 
They  take  poor  Smike  and  hury  him  alive ;  down  lie  goes 
into  the  vault,  a  stone  is  rolled  over  him,  the  cadgers  go 
away,  —  so  mucli  for  Smike. 

But  in  the  mean  time  Master  Browdie  has  not  been  idle. 
He  has  picked  tlie  pocket  of  one  of  the  cadgers  of  a  port- 
folio containing  papers  that  prove  Smike  to  be  Lord  Claren- 
don beyond  a  doubt ;  he  lags  behind  until  all  the  cadgers 
are  gone,  and  with  the  help  of  Nicholas  (who,  by  the  by, 
has  found  his  way  somehow  into  the  place),  he  pushes  away 
the  stone,  and  brings  the  fainting  boy  to  the  world. 

These  things  are  improbable  you  certainly  may  say,  but 
are  they  impossible  ?  If  they  are  possible,  then  they  may 
come  to  pass ;  if  they  may  come  to  pass,  then  they  may  be 
supposed  to  come  to  pass :  and  why  should  they  not  come 
to  pass  ?     That  is  my  argument :  let  us  pass  on  to  the 

Fifth  Act. 

Aha !  ^faster  Ralph,  you  think  you  will  have  it  all  your 
own  w^ay,  do  you  ?  The  lands  of  Clarendon  are  yours,  pro- 
vided there  is  no  male  heir,  and  you  have  done  for  him.  The 
peerage,  to  be  sure  (by  the  laws  of  England),  is  to  pass  to 
the  husband  of  Meess  Annabella.     Will  she  marry  Ralph, 


374  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

or  not  ?  Yes :  then  well  and  good ;  he  is  an  earl  for  the 
future  and  the  father  of  a  new  race  of  Clarendon.  No : 
then,  in  order  to  spell  her  still  more,  he  has  provided 
amongst  the  beggars  a  lad  who  is  to  personate  the  young 
mislaid  Lord  Clarendon,  who  is  to  come  armed  with  certain 
papers  that  make  his  right  unquestionable,  and  who  will  be 
a  creature  of  Kalph's,  to  be  used  or  cast  away  at  will. 

Ealph  pops  the  question  ;  the  lady  repels  him  with  scorn. 
"Quit  the  house,  Meess,"  says  he ;  "it  is  not  yours,  but  mine. 
Give  up  that  vain  title  which  you  have  adopted  since  your 
papa's  death;  you  are  no  countess, — your  brother  lives. 
Ho !  John,  Thomas,  Samuel !  introduce  his  lordship,  the 
Comte  de  Clarendon." 

And  who  slips  in  ?  Why,  in  a  handsome  new  dress,  in  the 
English  fashion,  Smike  to  be  sure  —  the  boy  whom  Ealph 
has  murdered  —  the  boy  who  had  risen  from  the  tomb  —  the 
boy  who  had  miraculously  discovered  the  papers  in  Cadger's 
Hall  and  (by  some  underhand  work  that  went  on  behind 
the  scenes,  which  I  don't  pretend  to  understand)  had  sub- 
stituted himself  for  the  substitute  which  that  wicked  banker 
had  proposed  to  bring  forward  !  A  rush  of  early  recollec- 
tions floods  the  panting  heart  of  the  young  boy.  Can  it 
be  ?  Yes  —  no ;  sure  these  halls  are  familiar  to  him  ? 
That  conservatory,  has  he  not  played  with  the  flowers 
there  —  played  with  his  blessed  mother  at  his  side  ?  That 
portrait !  Stop  !  a — a — a — a — ah  !  it  is  —  it  is  my  sister 
Anna  —  Anna  —  bella ! 

Fancy  the  scene  as  the  two  young  creatures  rush  with 
a  scream  into  each  other's  arms.  Fancy  John  Browdie's 
hilarity :  he  jumps  for  joy,  and  throws  off  his  beggar's 
cloak  and  beard.  Nicholas  clasps  his  hands,  and  casts 
his  fine  eyes  heavenward.  But,  above  all,  fancy  the  de- 
spair of  that  cursed  banker  Ralph  as  he  sees  his  victim 
risen  from  the  grave,  and  all  his  hopes  dashed  down  into 
it.  Oh  !  Heaven,  Thy  hand  is  here  !  How  must  the  banker 
then  have  repented  of  his  bargain  with  the  late  Lord  Clar- 
endon, and  that  he  had  not  had  his  lordship's  life  insured ! 
Perdition  !  to  have  been  out-tricked  by  a  boy  and  a  country 
boor !     Is  there  no  hope  ?  .  .  . 

Hope  ?  Psha !  man,  thy  reign  of  vice  is  over,  —  it  is 
the  fifth  act.  Already  the  people  are  beginning  to  leave 
the  house,  and  never  more  again  canst  thou  expect  to  lift 
thy  head. 

"  Monsieur  Ralph,"  Browdie  whispers,  "  after  your  pretty 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  375 

doings  in  Cadger's  Hall,  had  you  not  best  be  thinking  of 
leaving  the  countr}^,  as  jSlicholas  Xickleby's  uncle,  I  would 
fain  not  see  you,  crick !  You  understand  ?  "  (pointing  to 
his  jugular). 

''I  do,*'  says  Ealph  gloomily,  '''and  will  be  off  in  two 
hours."  And  Lord  Smike  takes  honest  Browdie  by  one 
hand,  gently  pressing  Kate's  little  fingers  with  the  otlier, 
and  the  sheriff,  and  the  footmen,  and  attendants  form  a 
tableau,  and  the  curtain  begins  to  fall,  and  the  blushing 
Annabel  whispers  to  happ}^  Xicholas,  — ''  Ah !  my  friend, 
I  can  give  up  with  joy  to  my  brother  ma  couroyine  de  com- 
tesse.  What  care  I  for  rank  or  name  with  you  ?  the  name 
that  I  love  above  all  others  is  that  of  Lady  Axnabel 
NiCKLEBY."  \_Exeunt  omnes. 

The  musicians  have  hurried  off  long  before  this.  In  one 
instant  the  stage  lamps  go  out,  and  you  see  fellows  starting 
forward  to  cover  the  boxes  with  canvas.  L'p  goes  the 
chandelier  amongst  the  gods  and  goddesses  painted  on 
the  ceiling.  Those  in  the  galleries,  meanwhile,  bellow 
out  "  Saint  Ernest  I "  he  it  is  who  acted  John  Browdie. 
Then  there  is  a  yell  of  '•  Smeek  !  Smeek  I ''  Blushing  and 
bowing,  ^ladame  Prosper  comes  forward ;  by  Heavens !  a 
pretty  woman,  with  tender  eyes  and  a  fresh,  clear  voice. 
Xext  the  gods  call  for  "Chilly!"  who  acted  the  villain: 
but  by  this  time  you  are  bustling  and  struggling  among 
the  crowd  in  the  lobbies,  where  there  is  the  usual  odor  of 
garlic  and  tobacco.  Men  in  sabots  come  tumbling  down 
from  the  galleries;  cries  of  " August e,  solo!  Eugenie! 
prends  ton  2)(iraplifieJ^  "Monsieur,  vous  vie  marchez  sur 
les  pieds,'-  are  heard  in  the  crowd,  over  which  the  brazen 
helmets  of  the  Pompier's  tower  are  shining.  A  cabman  in 
the  Boulevard,  who  opens  his  vehicle  eagerly  as  3'ou  pass 
b}',  growls  dreadful  oaths  when,  seated  inside,  you  politely 
request  him  to  drive  to  the  Barriere  de  I'Etoile.  '•  Ah,  ces 
Anglais,'^  says  he,  "fa  demeure  dans  les  deserts  —  dans  les 
deserts,  grand  Dieu  !  avec  les  loups  ;  ils prennent  leur  beaut}'- 
fine  the  avec  leurs  tartines  lesoir,  et  puis  ils  se  couchent  dans 
les  deserts,  ma  parole  d'honneur  ;  commes  des  ArabesJ^ 

If  the  above  explanation  of  the  plot  of  the  new  piece  of 
Nicholas  N'iddebij  has  appeared  intolerably  long  to  those 
few  persons  who  have  perused  it,  I  can  only  say  for  their 
comfort  that  I  have  not  told  one-half  of  the  real  plot  of 
the  piece  in  question ;  nay,  very  likely  have  passed  over  all 


376  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

the  most  interesting  part  of  it.  There,  for  instance,  was 
the  assassination  of  the  virtuous  villain  Becher,  the  dying 
scene  with  my  lord,  the  manner  in  which  Nicholas  got  into 
the  Cadger's  Cave,  and  got  out  again.  Have  I  breathed  a 
syllable  upon  any  of  these  points  ?  No ;  and  never  will  to 
my  dying  day.  The  imperfect  account  of  Nicholas  Nicklehy 
given  above  is  all  that  the  most  impatient  reader  (let  him 
have  fair  warning)  can  expect  to  hear  from  his  humble 
servant.  Let  it  be  sufficient  to  know  that  the  piece  in  it- 
self contains  a  vast  number  of  beauties  entirely  passed  over 
by  the  unworthy  critic,  and  only  to  be  appreciated  by  any 
gentleman  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  step  across  the 
Channel,  and  thence  from  his  hotel  to  the  ambiguously 
comic  theatre.  And  let  him  make  haste,  too ;  for  who 
knows  what  may  happen  ?  Human  life  is  proverbially 
short.  Theatrical  pieces  bloom  and  fade  like  the  flowers 
of  the  field,  and  very  likely  long  before  this  notice  shall 
appear  in  print  (as  let  us  heartily,  from  mercenary  consid- 
erations, pray  that  it  will),  the  drama  of  Nicholas  Nicklehy 
may  have  disappeared  altogether  from  the  world's  ken,  like 
Carthage,  Troy,  Swallow  Street,  the  Marylebone  bank,  Baby- 
lon, and  other  fond  magnificences  elevated  by  men,  and  now 
forgotten  and  prostrate. 

As  for  the  worthy  Boz,  it  will  be  seen  that  his  share  in 
the  piece  is  perfectly  insignificant,  and  that  he  has  no 
more  connection  with  the  noble  geniuses  who  invented  the 
drama  than  a  peg  has  with  a  gold-laced  hat  that  a  nobleman 
may  have  hung  on  it,  or  a  starting-post  on  the  race-course 
with  some  magnificent  thousand-guinea  fiery  horses  who 
may  choose  to  run  from  it.  How  poor  do  his  writings  ap- 
pear after  those  of  the  Frenchman  !  How  feeble,  mean,  and 
destitute  of  imagination  !  He  never  would  have  thought  of 
introducing  six  lords,  an  ex-kidnapper,  a  great  banker,  an  id- 
iot, a  schoolmaster,  his  usher,  a  cattle-driver,  coming  for  the 
most  part  a  couple  of  hundred  miles,  in  order  to  lay  open 
all  their  secrets  in  the  coffee-room  of  the  King's  Arms  hotel ! 
He  never  could  have  invented  the  great  subterraneous  cav- 
ern, ciinetiere  et  salle  de  hal,  as  Jules  Janin  calls  it !  The 
credit  of  all  this  falls  upon  the  French  adapters  of  Mon- 
sieur Dickens's  romance ;  and  so  it  will  be  advisable  to  let 
the  public  know. 

But  as  the  French  play-writers  are  better  than  Dickens, 
being  incomparably  more  imaginative  and  x^oetic,  so,  in 
progression,  is  the  French  critic,  Jules  Janin,  above  named, 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  377 

a  million  times  superior  to  the  French  playwrights,  and, 
after  Janin,  Dickens  disappears  altogether.  He  is  cut  up, 
disjwsed  of,  done  for.  J.  J.  has  hacked  him  into  small 
pieces,  and  while  that  wretched  romancer  is  amusing  him- 
self across  the  Atlantic,  and  fancying,  perhaps,  that  he  is  a 
popular  character,  his  business  has  been  done  for  ever  and 
ever  in  Europe.  What  matters  that  he  is  read  by  millions 
in  England  and  billions  in  America  ?  that  everybody  who 
understands  English  has  a  corner  in  his  heart  for  him  ? 
The  great  point  is,  ichat  does  Jules  Janin  think  ?  and  that 
we  shall  hear  presently ;  for  though  I  profess  the  greatest 
admiration  for  Mr.  Dickens,  yet  there  can  be  no  reason  why 
one  should  deny  one's  self  the  little  pleasure  of  acquainting 
him  that  some  ill-disposed  persons  in  the  world  are  inclined 
to  abuse  him.  Without  this  privilege  what  is  friendship 
good  for  ? 

Who  is  Janin  ?  He  is  the  critic  of  France.  J.  J.,  in 
fact,  —  the  man  who  writes  a  weekly  feu iIleto)i  in  the  Jour- 
nal  des  Dehafs  with  such  indisputable  brilliancy  and  wit, 
and  such  a  happy  mixture  of  effrontery,  and  honesty,  and 
poetry,  and  impudence,  and  falsehood,  and  impertinence, 
and  good  feeling,  that  one  can't  fail  to  be  charmed  with  the 
compound,  and  to  look  rather  eagerly  for  the  ^Monday's  pa- 
per; —  Jules  Janin  is  the  man  who,  not  knowing  a  single 
word  of  the  English  language,  as  he  actually  professes  in 
the  preface,  has  helped  to  translate  the  Sentimental  Journey. 
He  is  the  man  who,  when  he  was  married  (in  a  week  when 
news  were  slack  no  doubt),  actually  criticised  his  own  mar- 
riage  ceremony,  letting  all  the  public  see  the  proof-sheets  of 
his  bridal,  as  was  the  custom  among  certain  ancient  kings, 
I  believe.  In  fact,  a  more  modest,  honest,  unassuming, 
blushing,  truth-telling,  gentlemanlike  J.  J.,  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive. 

Well,  he  has  fallen  foul  of  ^Monsieur  Dickens,  this  fat 
French  moralist ;  he  says  Dickens  is  immodest,  and  Jules 
cannot  abide  immodesty ;  and  a  great  and  conclusive  proof 
this  is  upon  a  question  which  the  two  nations  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  arguing,  namely,  which  of  the  two  is  the  purer 
in  morals  ?  and  may  be  argued  clear  thus  :  — 

1.  We  in  England  are  accustomed  to  think  Dickens  mod- 
est, and  allow  our  children  to  peruse  his  works. 

2.  In  France,  the  man  who  wrote  the  history  of  The 
Dead  Donkey  and  the  Guillotined  Woman,*  and  afterwards 

*  Some  day  the  writer  meditates  a  great  and  splendid  review  of  J.  J.'s 
work. 


378  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

his  own  epithalamium  in  the  newspaper,  is  revolted  by 
Dickens. 

3.  Therefore  Dickens  must  be  immodest,  and  grossly 
immodest,  otherwise  a  person  so  confessedly  excellent  as 
J.  J.  would  never  have  discovered  the  crime. 

4.  And  therefore  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the  French  morals 
are  of  a  much  higher  order  than  our  own,  which  remark 
will  apply  to  persons  and  books  and  all  the  relations  of 
private  and  public  life. 

Let  us  now  see  how  our  fat  Jules  attacks  Dickens.  His 
remarks  on  him  begin  in  the  following  jocular  way :  — 

''thieatre  de  l'ambigu  comique. 
"  nicolas  nickleby,  m^ilodkame,  en  six  actes. 

"  A  genoux  devant  celui-lk  qui  s'appelle  Charles  Dickens  ! 
k  genoux  !  II  a  accompli  a  lui  seul  ce  que  n'ont  pu  faire  a 
eux  deux  lord  Byron  et  Walter  Scott !  Joignez-y,  si  vous 
voulez,  Pope  et  Milton  et  tout  ce  que  la  litterature  Anglaise 
a  produit  de  plus  solennel  et  de  plus  charmant.  Charles 
Dickens !  mais  il  n'est  question  que  de  lui  en  Angleterre. 
II  en  est  la  gloire,  et  la  joie,  et  I'orgueil !  Savez-vous  com- 
bien  d'acheteurs  possede  ce  Dickens  ;  j'ai  dit  d'acheteurs,  de 
gens  qui  tirent  leur  argent  de  leur  bourse  pour  que  cet 
argent  passe  de  leur  main  dans  la  main  du  libraire  ?  —  Dix 
mille  acheteurs.  Dix  mille  ?  que  disons-nous,  dix  mille ! 
vingt  mille  !  —  Vingt  mille  ?  Quoi !  vingt  mille  acheteurs  ? 
—  Fi  done,  vingt  mille  !  quarante  mille  acheteurs.  —  Et 
quoi !  il  a  trouve  quarante  mille  acheteurs,  vous  vous  moquez 
de  nous  sans  doute  ?  —  Oui,  mon  brave  homme,  on  se  moque 
de  vous,  car  ce  n'est  pas  vingt  mille  et  quarante  mille  et 
soixante  mille  acheteurs  qu'a  rencontres  ce  Charles  Dickens, 
c'est  cent  mille  acheteurs.  Cent  mille,  pas  un  de  moins. 
Cent  mille  esclaves,  cent  mille  tributaires,  cent  mille  !  Et 
nos  grands  ecrivains  modernes  s'estiment  bien  heureux  et 
bien  fiers  quand  leur  livre  le  plus  vante  parvient,  au  bout 
de  six  mois  de  celebrite,  h  son  huitieme  cent ! " 

There  is  raillery  for  you  !  there  is  a  knowledge  of  English 
literature,  —  of  "  Pope  et  Milton,  si  solennel  et  si  charm- 
ant ! "  Milton,  above  all ;  his  little  comedie  Samson 
VAgoniste  is  one  of  the  gayest  and  most  graceful  trifles  that 
ever  was  acted  on  the  stage.  And  to  think  that  Dickens 
has  sold  more  copies  of  his  work  than  the  above  two  emi- 
nent hommes-de-lettres,  and  Scott  and  Byron  into  the  bar- 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  379 

gain  !  It  is  a  fact,  and  J.  J.  vouches  for  it.  To  be  sure, 
J.  J.  knows  no  more  of  English  literature  than  I  do  of 
hieroglyphics,  — to  be  sure,  he  has  not  one  word  of  English. 
N'importe :  he  has  had  the  advantage  of  examining  the 
books  of  Mr.  Dickens's  publishers,  and  has  discovered  that 
they  sell  of  Boz's  works  ^' cent  mille,  pas  un  de  jnoiiis/' 
Janin  will  not  allow  of  one  less.  Can  you  answer  numbers  ? 
And  there  are  our  grands  ecrivains  modernes,  who  are  happy 
if  they  sell  eight  hundred  in  six  months.  Byron  and  Scott 
doubtless,  "le  solennel  Pope,  et  le  charmant  Milton,"  as 
well  as  other  geniuses  not  belonging  to  the  three  kingdoms. 
If  a  man  is  an  arithmetician  as  well  as  a  critic,  and  we  join 
together  figures  of  speech  and  Arabic  numerals,  there  is  no 
knowing  what  he  may  not  prove. 

"  Or/'  continues  J.  J.  :  — 

"  Or,  parmi  les  chefs-d'oeuvre  de  sa  fa^on  que  devore 
I'Angleterre,  ce  Charles  Dickens  a  produit  un  gros  melo- 
drame  en  deux  gros  volumes,  intitule  Nicolas  Nicklehy.  Ce 
livre  a  ete  traduit  chez  nous  par  un  homme  de  beaucoup 
d'esprit,  qui  n'est  pas  fait  pour  ce  triste  metier-la.  Si  vous 
saviez  ce  que  pent  etre  un  pareil  chef-d'oeuvre,  certes  vous 
prendriez  en  pitie  les  susdits  cent  mille  souscripteurs  de 
Charles  Dickens.  Figurez-vous  done  un  amas  d'inventions 
pueriles,  oil  I'horrible  et  le  niais  se  donnent  la  main,  dans 
une  ronde  infernale  ;  ici  passent  en  riant  de  bonnes  gens  si 
bons  qu'ils  en  sont  tout-iVfait  betes  ;  plus  loin  bondissent  et 
blasphement  toutes  sortes  de  bandits,  de  fripons,  de  voleurs 
et  de  miserables  si  affreux  qu'on  ne  sait  pas  comment 
pourrait  vivre,  seulement  vingt-quatre  heures,  une  societe 
ainsi  composee.  C'est  le  plus  nauseabond  melange  qu'on 
puisse  imaginer  de  lait  chaud  et  de  biere  tournee,  d'oeufs 
frais  et  de  boeuf  sale,  de  haillons  et  d'habits  brodes,  d'ecus 
d'or  et  de  gros  sous,  de  roses  et  de  pissenlits.  On  se  bat,  on 
s'embrasse,  on  s'injurie,  on  s'enivre,  on  meurt  de  faim. 
Les  fiUes  de  la  rue  et  les  lords  de  la  Chambre  haute,  les 
porte-faix  et  les  poetes,  les  ecoliers  et  les  voleurs,  se  prome- 
nent,  bras  dessus  bras  dessous,  au  milieu  de  ce  tohubohu 
insupportable.  Aimez-vous  la  fumee  de  tabac,  I'odeur  de 
Tail,  le  gout  du  pore  frais,  I'harmonie  que  fait  un  plat  d'etain 
frappe  contre  une  casserole  de  cuivre  non  etame  ?  Lisez- 
moi  consciencieusement  ce  livre  de  Charles  Dickens. 
Quelles  plaies  !  quelles  pustules  !  et  que  de  saintes  vertus  ! 
Ce  Dickens  a  reuni  en  bloc  toutes  les  descriptions  de  Guz- 
man d'Alfarache  et  tons  les    reves    de    Grandisson.     Oh ! 


380  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

qu'etes-voiis  devenus,  vous  les  lectrices  tant  soit  pen  prudes 
des  romans  de  Walter  Scott  ?  Oh  !  qu'a-t-on  fait  de  vous, 
les  lectrices  animees  de  Don  Juan  et  de  Lara  ?  0  vous,  les 
chastes  enthousiastes  de  la  Clarisse  Harlowe,  voilez-vous 
la  face  de  honte  !  A  cent  mille  exemplaires  le  Charles 
Dickens  !  " 

To  what  a  pitch  of  devergondage  must  the  English  ladies 
have  arrived,  when  a  fellow  who  can  chronicle  his  own 
marriage,  and  write  The  Dead  Donkey  and  the  Guillotined 
Woman,  —  when  even  a  man  like  that,  whom  nobody  can 
accuse  of  being  squeamish,  is  obliged  to  turn  away  with 
disgust  at  their  monstrous  immodesty  ! 

J.  J.  is  not  difficult ;  a  little  harmless  gallantry  and 
trifling  with  the  seventh  commandment  does  not  offend 
him,  —  far  from  it.  Because  there  are  no  love-intrigues  in 
Walter  Scott,  Jules  says  that  Scott's  readers  are  tant  soit 
pen  prudes!  There  ought  to  be,  in  fact,  in  life  and  in 
novels,  a  little,  pleasant,  gentlemanlike,  anti-seventh-com- 
mandment excitement.  E-ead  The  Dead  Donkey  and  the 
Gidllotlned  Woman,  and  you  will  see  how  the  thing  may 
be  agreeably  and  genteelly  done.  See  what  he  says  of 
Clarissa,  —  it  is  chaste  ;  of  Don  Juan,  —  it  is  not  indecent, 
it  is  not  immoral,  it  is  only  animee  !  Animee !  0  ciel ! 
what  a  word !  Could  any  but  a  Frenchman  have  had  the 
grace  to  hit  on  it  ?  "  Animation  "  our  Jules  can  pardon ; 
prudery  he  can  excuse,  in  his  good-humored,  contemptuous 
way ;  but  Dickens  —  this  Dickens,  —  0  fie  !  And,  perhaps, 
there  never  was  a  more  succinct,  complete,  elegant,  just,  and 
satisfactory  account  given  of  a  book  than  that  by  our  friend 
Jules  of  Nicholas  Nicklehij.  "It  is  the  most  disgusting 
mixture  imaginable  of  warm  milk  and  sour  beer,  of  fresh 
eggs  and  salt  beef,  of  rags  and  laced  clothes,  of  gold  crowns 
and  coppers,  of  rose  and  dandelions." 

There  is  a  receipt  for  you !  or  take  another,  which  is 
quite  as  pleasant :  — 

II. 

"  The  fumes  of  tobacco,  the  odor  of  garlic,  the  taste  of 
fresh  pork,  the  harmony  made  by  striking  a  pewter  plate 
against  an  untinned  copper  saucepan.  Eead  me  conscien- 
tiously this  book  of  Charles  Dickens ;  what  sores !  what 
pustules ! "  etc. 

Try  either  mixture  (and  both  are  curious),  —  for  fresh 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  381 

pork  is  an  ingredient  in  one,  salt  beef  in  another ;  tobacco 
and  garlic  in  receipt  Xo.  2  agreeably  take  the  places  of 
warm  milk  and  sour  beer  in  formula  Xo.  1 ;  and  whereas, 
in  the  second  prescription,  a  pewter  plate  and  untinned 
copper  saucepan  (what  a  devilish  satire  in  that  epithet 
untinned  /),  a  gold  crown  and  a  few  half-pence  answer  in 
the  first.  Take  either  mixture,  and  the  result  is  a  Dickens. 
Hang  thyself,  thou  unhappy  writer  of  Pickwick  ;  or,  blush- 
ing at  this  exposition  of  thy  faults,  turn  red  man  altogether, 
and  build  a  wigwam  in  a  wilderness,  and  live  with  'possums 
up  gum-trees.     Fresh  pork  and  warm  milk ;  sour  beer  and 

salt  b .     Faugh  !  how  could  you  serve  us  so  atrociously  ? 

And  this  is  one  of  the  "chefs-d'oeuvre  de  sa  fagon  que 
devore  I'Angleterre."  The  beastly  country !  How  Jules 
lashes  the  islanders  with  the  sting  of  that  epigram  —  chefs- 
d'cBUvre  de  Icur  fagon  ! 

Look  you,  J.  J.,  it  is  time  that  such  impertinence  should 
cease.  Will  somebody  —  out  of  three  thousand  literary 
men  in  France,  there  are  about  three  who  have  a  smatter- 
ing of  the  English  —  will  some  one  of  the  three  explain  to 
J.  J.  the  enormous  folly  and  falsehood  of  all  that  the  fellow 
has  been  saying  about  Dickens  and  English  literature 
generally  ?  We  have  in  England  literary  chefs-d'oeuvre  de 
notre  fagon,  and  are  by  no  means  ashamed  to  devour  the 
same.  ''Le  charmant  Milton"  was  not,  perhaps,  very 
skilled  for  making  epigrams  and  chansons-^-boire,  but, 
after  all,  was  a  person  of  merit,  and  of  his  works  have 
been  sold  considerably  more  than  eight  hundred  copies. 
''  Le  solennel  Pope  "  was  a  writer  not  undeserving  of  praise. 
There  must  have  been  something  worthy  in  Shakespeare,  — 
for  his  name  has  penetrated  even  to  France,  where  he  is  not 
unfrequently  called  '-le  Sublime  Williams."  Walter  Scott, 
though  a  prude,  as  you  sa}',  and  not  liaving  the  agreeable 
laisser-aller  of  the  author  of  the  Dead  Donlcey,  etc.,  could 
still  turn  off  a  romance  pretty  creditably.  He  and  "le 
Sublime  Williams  "  between  them  have  turned  your  French 
literature  topsy-turvy;  and  many  a  live  donkey  of  your 
crew  is  trying  to  imitate  their  paces  and  their  roars,  and  to 
lord  it  like  those  dead  lions.  These  men  made  chefs-d'muvre 
de  notre  fagon,  and  we  are  by  no  means  ashamed  to  acknowl- 
edge them. 

But  what  right  have  you,  0  blundering  ignoramus!  to 
pretend  to  judge  them  and  their  works,  —  you,  who  might 


382  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

as  -well  attempt  to  give  a  series  of  lectures  upon  the  litera- 
ture of  the  Hottentots,  and  are  as  ignorant  of  English  as 
the  author  of  the  Random  Recollections  ?  *  Learn  modesty, 
Jules ;  listen  to  good  advice ;  and  when  you  say  to  other 
persons,  lisez  moi  ce  livi'e  consciencleusement,  at  least  do  the 
same  thing,  0  critic !  before  you  attempt  to  judge  and 
arbitrate. 

And  I  am  ready  to  take  an  affidavit  in  the  matter  of  this 
criticism  of  Nicholas  Nicklehy,  that  the  translator  of 
Sterne,  who  does  not  know  English,  has  not  read  Boz  in 
the  original  —  has  not  even  read  him  in  the  translation, 
and  slanders  him  out  of  pure  invention.  Take  these  con- 
cluding opinions  of  J.  J.  as  a  proof  of  the  fact :  — 

"  De  ce  roman  de  Nicolas  Nickleby  a  ete  tire  le  melodrame 
qui  va  suivre.  Commencez  d'abord  par  entasser  les  souter- 
rains  sur  les  tenebres,  le  vice  sur  le  sang,  le  mensonge  sur 
I'injure,  Vadultere  sur  Vinceste,  battez-moi  tout  ce  melange, 
et  vous  verrez  ce  que  vous  allez  voir. 

"  Dans  un  comte  Anglais,  dans  une  ecole,  ou  plutot  dans 
une  horrible  prison  habitee  par  le  froid  et  la  faim,  un 
nomme  Squeers  entraine,  sous  pretexte  de  les  elever  dans 
la  belle  discipline,  tons  les  enfans  qu'on  lui  confie.  Ce 
miserable  Squeers  specule  tout  simplement  sur  la  faim,  sur 
la  soif,  sur  les  habits  de  ces  pauvres  petits.  On  n'entend 
que  le  bruit  des  verges,  les  soupirs  des  battus,  les  cris  des 
battans,  les  blasphemes  du  maitre.  C'est  affreux  a  lire  et  a 
voir.  Surtout  ce  qui  fait  peur  (je  parle  du  livre  en  ques- 
tion), c'est  la  misere  d'un  pauvre  petit  nomme  Smike,  dont 
cet  affreux  Squeers  est  le  bourreau.  Quand  parut  le  livre  de 
Charles  Dickens,  on  raconte  que  plus  d'un  maitre  de  pen- 
sion de  I'Angleterre  se  recria  contre  la  calomnie.  Mais, 
juste  ciel!  si  la  cent  millieme  partie  d'une  pareille  honte 
etait  possible ;  s'il  etait  vrai  qu'un  seul  marchand  de  chair 
humaine  ainsi  bati  put  exister  le  I'autre  cote  du  detroit  ce 
serait  le  deshonneur  d'une  nation  tout  entiere.  Et  si  en 
effet  la  chose  est  impossible,  que  venez-vous  done  nous 
conter,  que  le  roman,  tout  comme  la  comedie,  est  la  peinture 
des  moeurs  ? 

"  Or  ce  petit  malheureux  convert  de  haillons  et  de  plaies, 
le  jouet  de  M.  Squeers,  c'est  tout  simplement  le  fils  unique 
de    Lord   Clarendon,    un    des    plus    grands    seigneurs    de 

*  James  Grant,  whose  book,  entitled  "Paris  and  its  People,"  was  very 
caustically  reviewed  by  Thackeray  in  Frasefs  Mar/azine,  December,  1843, 
under  the  title  of  "  Grant  in  Paris  "  (see  vol.  xx.of  this  series). 


DICKENS  IN  FRANCE.  383 

I'Angleterre.  Voila  justement  ce  que  je  clisais  tout  h. 
I'heure.  Dans  ces  roinans  qui  sont  le  rebut  cl'une  imagina- 
tion en  delire,  il  n'y  a  pas  de  milieu.  Ou  bein  vous  etes 
le  dernier  des  mendians  charges  d'une  besace  vide,  ou  bien, 
salut  a  vous  !  vous  etes  due  et  pair  du  royaume  et  chevalier 
de  la  Jarretiere !  Ou  le  manteau  royal  ou  le  haillon. 
Quelquefois,  pour  varier  la  these,  on  vous  met  par  dessus 
vos  haillons  le  manteau  de  pourpre.  —  Votre  tete  est  pleine 
de  vermine,  a  la  bonne  heure  !  mais  laissez  faire  le  roman- 
cier,  il  posera  tout  a  I'heure  sur  vos  immondes  cheveux,  la 
couronne  ducale.  Ainsi  precedent  M.  Dickens  et  le 
Capitaine  Marryat  et  tons  les  autres." 

Here  we  have  a  third  receipt  for  the  confection  of 
Nicholas  Nicklebf/,  —  darkness  and  caverns,  vice  and  blood, 
incest  and  adultery,  ^^  hattez-moi  tout  fa,"  and  the  thing  is 
done.  Considering  that  Mr.  Dickens  has  not  said  a  word 
about  darkness,  about  caverns,  about  blood  (farther  than  a 
little  harmless  claret  drawn  from  Squeers's  nose),  about 
the  two  other  crimes  mentioned  by  J.  J.,  —  is  it  not  de  luxe 
to  put  them  into  the  Nickleby-receipt  ?  Having  read  the 
romances  of  his  own  country,  and  no  others,  J.  J.  thought 
he  was  safe,  no  doubt,  in  introducing  the  last-named  ingre- 
dients ;  but  in  England  the  people  is  still  taut  so'it  pew 
prudes,  and  will  have  none  such  fare.  In  what  a  luxury  of 
lilth,  too,  does  this  delicate  critic  indulge !  votre  tete  est 
pleine  de  vermine  (a  flattering  supposition  for  the  French 
reader,  by  the  way,  and  remarkable  for  its  polite  propriety). 
Your  head  is  in  this  condition ;  but  never  mind ;  let  the 
romancer  do  his  work,  and  he  will  presently  place  upon 
your  Jilthy  hair  (kind  again)  the  ducal  coronet.  This  is 
the  way  with  Monsieur  Dickens,  Captain  Marryat,  and  the 
others. 

With  whom,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  What  has  poor  Dick- 
ens ever  had  to  do  with  ducal  crowns,  or  with  the  other 
ornaments  of  the  kind  which  Monsieur  Jules  distributes  to 
his  friends  ?  Tell  lies  about  men,  friend  Jules,  if  you  will, 
but  not  such  lies.  See,  for  the  future,  that  they  have  a 
greater  likelihood  about  them  ;  and  try,  at  least  when  you  are 
talking  of  propriety  and  decency  of  behavior,  to  have  your 
words  somewhat  more  cleanly,  and  your  own  manners  as 
little  offensive  as  possible. 

And  with  regard  to  the  character  of  Squeers,  the  impos- 
sibility of  it,  and  the  consequent  folly  of  placing  such  a 
portrait  in  a  work  that  pretends  to  be  a  painting  of  man- 


384  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

ners,  that,  too,  is  a  falsehood  like  the  rest.  Such  a  disgrace 
to  human  nature  not  only  existed,  but  existed  in  J.  J.'s 
country  of  France.  Who  does  not  remember  the  history  of 
the  Boulogne  schoolmaster,  a  year  since,  whom  the  news- 
papers called  the  "  French  Squeers  ;  "  and  about  the  same 
time,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  there  was  a  case  still 
more  atrocious,  of  a  man  and  his  wife  who  farmed  some 
score  of  children,  subjected  them  to  ill-treatment  so  horrible 
that  only  J.  J.  himself,  in  his  nastiest  fit  of  indignation, 
could  describe  it ;  and  ended  by  murdering  one  or  two,  and 
starving  all.  The  whole  story  was  in  the  Dehats,  J.  J.'s 
own  newspaper,  where  the  accomplished  critic  may  read  it. 


THE   P ARTIE  FINE.  385 


THE   PARTIE   FINE. 

BY    LANCELOT    WAGSTAFF,    ESQ. 

[Colbuni's  New  Monthly  Magazine,  May  and  June,  1844.] 

CoLOXEL  GoLLOP's  dinner  in  Harley  Street  (the  colonel 
is  an  East  India  director,  and  his  Mulligatawny  the  best 
out  of  Bengal)  was  just  put  off,  much  to  my  disappoint- 
ment, for  I  had  no  other  engagement ;  Mrs.  Wagstaif  was 
out  of  town  with  her  mother  at  Bognor ;  and  my  clothes 
had  been  brought  down  to  the  club  to  dress  —  all  to  no 
purpose. 

I  was  disconsolately  looking  over  the  bill  of  fare,  and  de- 
bating between  Irish  stew  and  the  thirteenth  cut  at  a  leg 
of  lamb  (of  which  seven  barristers  had  partaken,  each  with 
his  half-pint  of  Marsala),  when  Jiggins,  the  waiter,  brought 
me  in  a  card,  saying  that  the  gentleman  was  in  the  hall, 
and  wished  to  see  mo. 

The  card  was  Fitzsimons's  ;  —  a  worthy  fellow,  as  I  dare 
say  my  reader  knows.  I  went  out  to  speak  to  him.  "Per- 
haps," thought  I,  "  he  is  going  to  ask  me  to  dine." 

There  was  something  particularly  splendid  in  Fitz's 
appearance,  as  I  saw  at  a  glance.  He  had  on  a  new  blue 
and  white  silk  neckcloth,  so  new  that  it  had  never  been 
hemmed ;  his  great  gold  jack-chain,  as  I  call  it,  was  dis- 
played across  his  breast,  showing  off  itself  and  a  lace  ruffle 
a  great  deal  too  ostentatiously,  as  I  thought.  He  had 
lemon-colored  gloves  ;  French  polished  boots,  with  deuced 
high  heels  ;  his  hair  curled  (it  is  red,  but  oils  to  a  mahogany 
color)  ;  his  hat  extremely  on  one  side  ;  and  his  mustache 
lacquered  up  with,  I  do  believe,  the  very  same  varnish 
which  he  puts  to  his  boots.  I  hate  those  varnished  boots, 
except  for  moderns,  and  Fitz  is  three  and  forty  if  he 
is  a  day. 

However,  there  he  stood,  whipping  his  lacquered  boots 
with  a  gold-headed  stick,  whistling,  twirling  his  mustache, 
pulling  up  his  shirt-collar,  and  giving  himself  confoundedly 


386  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

dandified  airs  in  a  word,  before  the  hall-porter  and  the  club 
message-boy  in  brass  buttons. 

"  Wagstaff,  my  boy,"  says  he,  holding  out  a  kid  glove,  in 
a  most  condescending  manner,  ''I  have  something  to  pro- 
pose to  you.'' 

^'  What  is  it,  and  what's  your  hour  ? "  said  I  quite 
playfully. 

"  You've  guessed  it  at  once,"  answered  he.  "  A  dinner 
is  what  I  mean  —  Mrs.  Wagstaff  is  out  of  town,  and  "  — 

Here  he  whispered  me. 

Well  ?  why  not  ?  —  After  all  there  may  be  some  very 
good  fun.  If  my  mother-in-law  heard  of  it  she  would  be 
sure  to  make  a  roAV.  But  she  is  safe  at  Bognor  (may  she 
stay  there  forever  !).  It  is  much  better  that  I  should  have 
some  agreeable  society  than  dine  alone  at  the  club,  after 
the  seven  barristers,  on  the  leg  of  lamb.  Of  course  it  was 
not  to  be  an  expensive  dinner  —  of  course  not,  Fitzsimons 
said,  —  no  more  it  was  to  him  —  hang  him  —  as  you  shall 
hear. 

It  was  agreed  that  the  dinner-hour  should  be  seven  :  the 
place,  Durognon's  in  the  Haymarket ;  and  as  I  rather  pique 
myself  on  ordering  a  French  dinner,  that  matter  was  to  be 
consigned  to  me.  I  walked  down  to  Durognon's,  looked  at 
the  room,  and  ordered  the  dinner  for  four  persons  —  the 
man  asked  how  much  champagne  should  be  put  in  ice  ? 
which  I  considered  rather  a  leading  question,  and  giving  a 
vague  sort  of  reply  to  this  (for  I  determined  that  Fitzsimons 
should  treat  us  to  as  much  as  he  liked),  I  walked  away  to 
while  away  the  hour  before  dinner. 

After  all,  I  thought,  I  may  as  well  dress  :  the  things  are 
ready  at  the  club,  and  a  man  is  right  to  give  himself  every 
personal  advantage,  especially  when  he  is  going  to  dine 
with  —  with  LADIES.  There  —  the  secret  is  out.  Fitz  has 
invited  me  to  make  a  fourth  in  a  petit  diner  given  to 
Madame  ISTelval  of  the  French  theatre,  and  her  friend  Made- 
moiselle Delval.  I  had  seen  Madame  ISTelval  from  a  side- 
box  a  few  evenings  before  —  and,  pavhleii  homo  sum ;  I 
meant  no  harm  ;  Gollop's  dinner  was  off ;  Mrs.  Wagstaff 
was  out  of  town ;  and  I  confess  I  was  very  glad  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  meeting  this  fascinating  actress,  and  keeping 
up  my  French.  So  I  dressed,  and  at  seven  o'clock  walked 
back  to  Durognon's,  whither  it  was  agreed  that  Fitz  was  to 
bring  the  ladies  in  his  Brougham  ;  — the  deuce  knows  how 


THE   PARTI E   FINE.  387 

he  gets  the  money  to  pay  for  it  by  the  wa}^,  or  to  indulge 
in  a  hundred  other  expenses  far  beyond  any  moderate 
man's  means. 

As  the  St.  James's  clock  struck  seven,  a  gentleman  — 
past  the  period  of  extreme  youth  it  is  true,  but  exhibiting  a 
remarkably  elegant  person  still  in  a  very  becoming  costume, 
might  have  been  seen  walking  by  London  House,  and  turn- 
ing down  Charles  Street  to  the  Haymarket.  This  indi- 
vidual, I  need  not  say,  was  myself.  I  had  done  my  white 
tie  to  a  nicety,  and  could  not  help  saying,  as  I  gazed  for  a 
moment  in  the  great  glass  in  the  club  drawing-room  — 
"  Corbleu,  Wagstaff,  you  are  still  as  distingue  a  looking  fel- 
low as  any  in  London."  How  women  can  admire  that 
odious  Fitzsimons  on  account  of  his  dyed  mustaches,  I  for 
one  never  could  understand. 

The  dinner-table  at  Diirognon's  made  a  neat  and  hospita- 
ble appearance  ;  the  plated  candlesticks  w^ere  not  more  cop- 
pery than  such  goods  usually  are  at  taverns  ;  the  works  of 
art  on  the  walls  were  of  tolerable  merit;  the  window-cur- 
tains, partially  drawn,  yet  allowed  the  occupant  of  the  room 
to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  cab-stand  opposite,  and  I  seated 
myself  close  to  the  casement,  as  they  say  in  the  novels, 
awaiting  Captain  Fitzsimons's  arrival  with  the  two  ladies. 

I  waited  for  some  time  —  the  cabs  on  the  stand  disap- 
peared from  the  rank,  plunged  rattling  into  the  mighty 
vortex  ii  London,  and  were  replaced  by  other  cabs.  The 
sun,  which  had  set  somewhere  behind  Piccadilly,  was  now 
replaced  by  the  lustrous  moon,  the  gas  lamps,  and  the  red 
and  blue  orbs  that  flared  in  the  windows  of  the  chemist 
opposite.  Time  passed  on,  but  no  Fitzsimons's  Brougham 
made  its  appearance.  I  read  the  evening  paper,  half  an 
hour  was  gone  and  no  company  come.  At  last,  as  the 
opera  carriages  actually  began  to  thunder  down  the  street, 
"  a  hand  was  on  my  shoulder,"  as  the  member  for  Ponte- 
fract  *  sings.  T  turned  round  suddenly  from  my  reverie  — 
that  hand,  that  yellow  kid-glove-covered  hand  was  Fitz- 
simons's. 

"  Come  along,  my  boy,"  says  he,  "  we  will  go  fetch 
the  ladies  —  thev  live  in  Burv  Street,  only  three  minutes' 
walk." 

/  go  to  Bury  Street  ?  I  be  seen  walking  through  St. 
James's  Square,  giving  an  arm  to  any  other  lady  in  Europe 
but  my  Arabella,  my  wife,  Mrs.  Wagstaff  ?  Suppose  her 
*  Richard  Monckton  Milnes.  —  Ed. 


388  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

uncle,  the  dean,  is  going  to  dine  at  the  bishop's,  and  should 
see  me  ?  —  me,  walking  with  a  French  lady,  in  three-quar- 
ters of  a  bonnet !  I  should  like  to  know  what  an  opinion 
he  would  have  of  me,  and  where  his  money  in  the  funds 
would  go  to  ? 

"No,"  says  I,  "  my  dear  Fitzsimons,  a  joke  is  a  joke,  and 
I  am  not  more  strait-laced  than  another  ;  but  the  idea  that 
Mr.  Lancelot  Wagstaff  should  be  seen  walking  in  St. 
James's  Square  with  a  young  French  actress,  is  a  little  too 
absurd.  It  would  be  all  over  the  city  to-morrow,  and  Ara- 
bella would  tear  my  eyes  out." 

"You  sha'n't  walk  with  a  French  actress,"  said  Fitz. 
"  You  shall  give  your  arm  to  as  respectable  a  woman  as  any 
in  Baker  Street  —  I  pledge  you  my  honor  of  this  — 
Madame  la  Baronne  de  Saint  Menehould,  the  widow  of  a 
General  of  the  Empire  —  connected  with  the  first  people  in 
France.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  is  not  equal  to  any 
of  your  sugar-baking  family  ?  "  I  passed  over  Fitz's  sneer 
regarding  my  family  \  and  as  it  was  a  baroness,  of  course 
agreed  to  walk  with  Fitzsimons  in  search  of  the  ladies. 

"  I  thought  you  said  Madame  Delval  this  morning," 
said  I. 

"  Oh,  the  baroness  is  coming  too,"  answered  Fitzsimons, 
and  ordered  a  fifth  cover  to  be  laid.  We  walked  to  Bury 
Street,  and  presently  after  a  great  deal  of  chattering  and 
clapping  of  doors  and  drawers,  three  ladies  made  their  ap- 
pearance in  the  drawing-room,  and  having  gone  through  the 
ceremony  of  an  introduction  in  an  entire  state  of  darkness, 
the  order  of  march  was  given.  I  offered  my  arm  to  the 
Baroness  de  Saint  Menehould,  Fitz  leading  the  way  with 
the  other  two  ladies. 

We  walked  down  Jermyn  Street ;  my  heart  thumped 
with  some  uneasiness  as  we  crossed  by  the  gambling-house 
in  Waterloo  Place,  lest  any  one  should  see  me.  There  is  a 
strong  gas-lamp  there,  and  I  looked  for  the  first  time  at  my 
portly  companion.  She  was  fifty-five  if  a  day  —  five  years 
older  than  that  Fitzsimons.  This  eased  me,  but  somehow 
it  didn't  please  me.  I  can  walk  Avith  a  woman  of  five  and 
fifty  any  day  —  there's  my  mother-in-law,  my  aunts,  and 
the  deuce  knows  how  many  more  I  could  mention.  But  I 
was  consoled  by  the  baroness  presently  saying,  that  she 
should,  from  my  accent,  have  mistaken  me  for  a  French- 
man —  a  great  compliment  to  a  man  who  has  been  in  Paris 
but  once,  and  learned  the  language  from  a  Scotch  usher, 


THE   PART  IE   FIXE.  389 

never  mind  how  many  years  ago,  at  Mr.  Lord's  Academy, 
Tooting,  Surrey. 

But  I  adore  Paul  de  Kock's  novels,  and  have  studied 
them  so  rapturously  that  no  wonder  I  should  have  made  a 
proficiency  in  the  language.  Indeed  Arabella  has  often  ex- 
pressed herself  quite  jealous  as  I  lay  on  the  sofa  of  an 
evening,  laughing  my  waistcoat-strings  off,  over  his  de- 
lightful pages.  ('The  dear  creature  is  not  herself  very 
familiar  with  the  language,  and  sings  Fluve  dew  Tage,  Par- 
tong  pour  Syrie,  etc.,  with  the  most  confirmed  Clapham  ac- 
cent.) I  say  she  has  often  confessed  herself  to  be  jealous 
of  the  effect  produced  on  my  mind  by  this  dear,  delightful, 
wicked,  odious,  fascinating  writer,  whose  pictures  of  French 
society  are  so  admirabl}'  ludicrous.  It  was  through  Paul  de 
Kock  that  I  longed  to  know  something  about  Parisian  life, 
and  those  charming  semillantes,  frefillanfes,  ^:>6V«7/a?«^e5 
grisettes,  whose  manners  he  describes.  "It's  Paul  de 
Kock  in  London,  by  Jove,"  said  I  to  myself,  when  Fitz  pro- 
posed the  little  dinner  to  me ;  ''I  shall  see  all  their  ways 
and  their  fun." -^  And  that  was  the  reason  why,  as  Mrs. 
^Yagstaff  was  out  of  town,  I  accepted  the  invitation  so 
cordially. 

Well ;  we  arrived  at  Durognon's  at  a  quarter-past  eight, 
we  five,  and  were  ushered  at  length  into  the  dining-room, 
where  the  ladies  flung  off  their  cloaks  and  bonnets,  and  I 
had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  their  faces  completely. 

]\radame  I'Jelval's  was  as  charming  a  face  as  I  ever  looked 
upon  ;  her  hair  parted  meekly  over  the  forehead,  which 
was  rather  low  ;  the  eyes  and  eyebrows  beautiful ;  the  nose 
such  as  Grecian  sculptor  scarce  ever  chipped  out  of  Parian 
stone  ;  the  mouth  small,  and,  when  innocently  smiling,  dis- 
playing the  loveliest  pearly  teeth,  and  calling  out  two 
charming  attendant  dimples  on  each  fresh  cheek ;  the  ear  a 
perfect  little  gem  of  an  ear.  (I  adore  ears — unadorned 
ears  without  any  hideous  ornaments  dangling  from  them  — 
pagodas,  chandeliers,  bunches  of  grapes,  and  similar  mon- 
strosities, such  as  ladies  will  hang  from  them  —  entr'  autres 
my  own  wife,  Mrs.  W.,  who  has  got  a  pair  of  earrings  her 
uncle,  the  dean,  gave  her,  that  really  are  as  big  as  boot- 
jacks almost.)  She  was  habited  in  a  neat,  closely  fitting 
silk  dress  of  Parisian  tartan  silk,  which  showed  off  to  ad- 
vantage a  figure  that  was  perfect,  and  a  waist  that  was 
ridiculously  small.  A  more  charming,  candid,  distinguished 
head  it  was  impossible  to  see. 


390  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Mademoiselle  Delval  was  a  modest,  clever,  pleasing  per- 
son, neatly  attired  in  a  striped  something,  I  don't  know  the 
proper  phrase ;  and  Madame  la  Baronne  was  in  a  dress 
which  I  should  decidedly  call  gingham. 

When  we  sat  down  to  the  Potage  Printaniere,  and  I 
helped  the  baroness  naturally  first,  addressing  her  respect- 
full}'  by  her  title,  the  other  two  ladies  began  to  laugh,  and 
that  brute,  Fitzsimons,  roared  as  if  he  was  insane.  ''La 
Baronne  de  Saint  Menehould  ! "  cried  out  little  Madame 
Delval ;  "  o  par  exemple  !  c'est  maman,  mon  cher  mon- 
sieur ! "  On  which  (though  I  was  deucedly  nettled,  I  must 
confess),  I  said,  that  to  be  the  mother  of  Madame  Delval, 
was  the  proudest  title  any  lady  could  have,  and  so  sneaked 
out  of  my  mortification  with  this,  I  flatter  myself,  not  in- 
elegant compliment.  The  ladies,  one  and  all,  declared  that 
I  spoke  French  like  a  Parisian,  and  so  I  ordered  in  the 
champagne  ;  and  very  good  Durognon's  Sillery  is  too. 

Both  the  young  ladies  declared  they  detested  it,  but 
Madame  Delval,  the  elder,  honestly  owned  that  she  liked 
it ;  and  indeed  I  could  not  but  remark  that,  in  our  favor 
doubtless,  the  two  younger  dames  forgot  their  prejudices, 
and  that  their  glasses  were  no  sooner  filled  than  they  were 
empty. 

Ah,  how  charming  it  was  to  see  the  shuddering,  timid, 
nervous  way  in  which  the  lovely  Delval,  junior  (let  me  call 
her  at  once  by  her  Christian  name  of  Virginie),  turned 
away  her  little  shrinking  head  as  the  waiter  opened  the 
bottles,  and  they  went  off  with  their  natural  exhilarating 
pop  and  fizz.  At  the  opening  of  the  first  bottle,  she  flew 
into  a  corner;  at  the  opening  of  the  second,  she  ran  to 
her  mother's  arms  (Jiinnuleo  similis  qucerenti  jpavidaTn 
montibus  aviis  viatrem,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Tooting),  sweet 
sensibility !  charming,  timorous  grace  !  but  she  took  the 
liquor  very  kindly  when  it  ivas  opened,  saying,  as  she 
turned  up  her  fine  eyes  to  Heaven,  ''  II  n'y  a  rien  qui 
m'agage  les  nerfs  comme  cela  !  "  Agager  les  nerfs!  What 
a  delicate  expression !  The  good  old  lady  told  her  to  be 
calm,  and  made  light  of  her  terror. 

But  though  I  had  piqued  myself  on  ordering  the  dinner, 
the  little  coquette  soon  set  me  down.  She  asked  for  the 
most  wonderful  things  —  for  instance,  she  would  have  a 
salad  of  dandelion  —  the  waiter  was  packed  off  to  Covent 
Garden  to  seek  for  it.  When  the  fish  came,  she  turned  to 
tihe   waiter  and  said,   "Comment?  vous   n'avez   point   de 


THE  PART  IE  FINE.  391 

moules  ?  "  with  the  most  natural  air  in  the  world,  and  as 
if  mussels  were  always  served  at  Parisian  dinners,  which, 
I  suppose,  is  the  case.  And  then  at  dessert,  what  must  she 
remark  but  the  absence  of  asparagus,  which,  I  must  con- 
fess, I  had  not  ordered. 

"  What,"  she  said,  turning  round  to  my  companion,  "  are 
there  no  asparagus,  monsieur  ?  —  ISTo  asparagus  !  ah,  mon- 
sieur !  c'est  ma  vie,  mon  bonheur,  que  les  asperges  !  J'en 
suis  folle  —  des  asperges.  Je  les  adore  —  les  asperges  ! 
Je  ne  mange  que  cela,  —  il  me  les  faut,  Monsieur  Fitz- 
simons.  Vite,  gar^on !  des  asperges  —  des  asperges  a 
I'huile,  entendez-vous  ?  " 

We  were  both  very  much  alarmed  by  this  manifest  ex- 
citement of  Virginie's  nerves  ;  and  the  asparagus  was  sent 
for.  0  woman !  you  are  some  of  you  like  the  animals  of 
the  field  in  so  far  as  this,  that  you  do  not  know  your 
power.  Those  who  do  can  work  wonders  over  us.  No 
man  can  resist  them.  We  two  were  as  timid,  wretched, 
and  trembling,  until  the  asparagus  came,  as  any  mortal 
could  be.  It  seemed  as  if  we  had  committed  a  crime  in  not 
ordering  the  asparagus  that  Virginie  adored.  If  she  had 
proposed  a  pint  of  melted  pearls,  I  think  Fitz  was  the  man 
to  send  off  to  Storr  and  Mortimer's,  and  have  the  materials 
bought.  They  (I  don't  mean  the  pearls,  but  the  vegeta- 
bles) came  in  about  half  an  hour,  and  she  ate  them  cold,  as 
she  said,  with  oil  and  vinegar ;  but  the  half-hour's  pause 
was  a  ver}"  painful  one.  and  we  vainly  endeavored  to  fill 
the  odious  vacuum  with  champagne.  All  the  while,  Fitz- 
simons,  though  he  drank  and  kept  nervously  helping  his 
neighbors  right  and  left,  was  quite  silent  and  frightened. 
I  know  which  will  be  the  better  horse  (as  the  phrase  is) 
if  he's  ever  married.  I  was  of  course  collected,  and  kept 
putting  in  my  jokes  as  usual,  but  I  cannot  help  saying  that  I 
wished  myself  out  of  the  premises,  dreading  to  think  what 
else  Madame  Virginie  might  ask  for,  and  saying  inwardly, 
"What  would  my  poor  Arabella  say  if  she  knew  her 
scoundrel  of  a  Lancelot  was  in  such  company  ?  " 

Well  —  it  may  have  been  the  champagne,  or  it  may  have 
been  the  asparagus,  —  though  I  never,  I  confess,  remarked 
such  a  quality  in  the  vegetable,  —  it  may,  I  say,  have  been 
the  asparagus  which  created  —  what  do  you  think  ?  a 
reconciliation  between  Virginie  and  Heloise  —  the  Madame 
Delval  before  mentioned.  This  is  a  delicate  matter,  but  it 
appeared  the  ladies  had  had  a  difference   in  the  morning 


392  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

about  a  ribbon,  a  fichu,  or  some  such  matter  doubtless,  and 
they  had  not  spoken  all  dinner-time. 

But  after  a  bottle  of  sherry,  four  of  Sillery  (which  we  all 
took  fairly,  no  flinching,  no  heel-taps,  glass  and  glass  about), 
after  coffee  and  cura^oa,  and  after  the  asparagus,  a  recon- 
ciliation took  place,  Heloise  looked  at  Virginie,  Virginie 
looked  at  Heloise,  the  latter  rose  from  her  chair,  tottered 
towards  her  friend,  and  they  were  in  each  other's  arms  in 
a  minute.  Old  Madame  Delval  looked  quite  pleased  at 
the  scene,  and  said,  smiling,  to  us,  "  Elle  a  si  hon  cceur,  ma 
fille  !  "  Oh  those  mothers  !  they  are  all  the  same.  Not 
that  she  was  wrong  in  this  instance.  The  two  young 
ladies  embraced  with  the  warmest  cordiality,  the  quarrel 
about  the  ribbon  was  forgotten,  the  two  young  hearts  were 
united  once  more ;  and  though  that  selfish  brute,  Fitz- 
simons,  who  has  no  more  heart  than  a  bed-post,  twiddled 
his  eternal  mustache,  and  yawned  over  the  scene,  I  con- 
fess I  was  touched  by  this  little  outbreak  of  feeling,  and 
this  glimpse  into  the  history  of  the  hearts  of  the  young 
persons,  and  drank  a  glass  of  cura9oa  to  old  Madame 
Delval  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 

But,  oh  !  fancy  our  terror,  when  all  of  a  sudden  Heloise, 
weeping  on  her  friend's  neck,  began  to  laugh  and  to  cry, 
and  burst  out  shrieking  into  a  fit  of  hysterics  !  When 
women  begin  hysterics  a  tremor  seizes  me  —  I  become  mad 
myself — I  have  had  my  wife  and  mother-in-law  both  in 
hysterics  on  the  same  rug,  and  I  know  what  it  is  —  the 
very  sound  of  the  whoo — oo — oo  drives  me  wild.  I  have 
heard  it  imitated  in  theatres,  and  have  rushed  out  in  a 
frenzy.  "  Water  !  water  !  "  gasped  Virginie  (we  had  some- 
how not  had  any  all  dinner-time),  I  tumbled  out  of  the 
room,  upsetting  three  waiters  who  were  huddled  at  the 
door  (and  be  hanged  to  them)  ;  "  water,'^  roared  I,  rushing 
downstairs,  upsetting  boots,  and  alarmed  chamber-maids 
came  panting  in  with  a  jug. 

"  What  will  they  think  of  us  ?  "  thought  I,  trembling 
with  emotion  —  "  they  will  think  we  have  murdered  the 
poor  young  lady,  and  yet  on  my  honor  and  conscience  I  — 
Oh  why  did  I  come  —  what  would  Arabella  say  if  she 
knew  ? "  I  thought  of  the  police  coming  in,  of  para- 
graphs in  the  paper  beginning,  "Two  ruffians  of  gentle- 
manly exterior  were  brought  before  Mr.  Jardine,"  etc., 
it  was  too  horrible  —  if  I  had  had  my  hat  I  would  have 
taken  a  cab  off  the  stand,  and  driven  down  to  my  wife 


THE  P ARTIE  FINE.  393 

at  Bognor  that  minute  ;  but  I  hadn't  —  so  I  went  up  to 
fetch  it. 

Heloise  was  l3^ing  on  the  sofa  now,  a  little  calmer; 
Madame  Delval  and  the  chamber-maid  were  being  kind  to 
her :  as  for  that  brute,  Fitzsimons,  he  was  standing  in  one 
of  the  windows,  his  legs  asunder,  his  two  fists  thrust  into 
the  tail  pockets  of  his  brass-buttoned  coat,  whistling, 
'•  Suoni  la  Tromba,"  the  picture  of  heartless,  shameless 
indifference. 

As  soon  as  the  maid  was  gone,  and  I  was  come  in, 
Madame  Virginie  must  of  course  begin  hysterics  too  — 
they  always  do,  these  women.  She  turned  towards  me 
with  an  appealing  look  (she  had  been  particularly  attentive 
to  me  at  dinner,  much  more  than  to  Fitzsimons,  whom  she 
boucled  the  whole  time)  —  she  gave  me  an  appealing  look  — 
and  struck  up  too. 

I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  flung  myself  down  on  a  chair,  and, 
beginning  to  bang  my  forehead,  gasped  out,  "  Oh  Heavens  ! 
a  cab,  a  cab  !  " 

"  We'll  have  a  coach.  Go  back  with  them,"  said  Fitz, 
coming  swaggering  up. 

'^  Go  hack  with  them  ?  ''  said  I,  "  I'll  never  see  them 
again  as  long  as  I  live."  No  more  I  would  go  back  with 
them.  The  carriage  was  called  (the  hysterics  ceased  the 
very  moment  Fitz  flung  open  the  window  and  the  cab- 
stand opposite  could  hear) — the  ladies  went  out.  In  vain 
good  old  Madame  Delval  looked  as  if  she  expected  my  arm. 
In  vain  Virginie  cast  her  appealing  look.  I  returned  it 
them  with  the  most  stony  inditference,  and,  falling  back 
upon  my  chair,  thought  of  my  poor  Arabella. 

The  coach  drove  off.  I  felt  easier  as  the  rattle  of  the 
departing  wheels  died  away  in  the  night,  and  I  got  up  to 
go.  "How  glad  I  am  it's  over,"  thought  I,  on  the  stair  ; 
"if  ever  I  go  to  ^ j^artiejine  again  may  I"  .  .  . 

"  I  beg  your  parding,  sir,''  said  the  waiter,  touching  my 
elbow  just  as  I  was  at  the  hotel  door. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  says  I. 

"  The  bill,  sir,"  says  he,  with  a  grin. 

"  The  bill,  sir  ?  "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  why  it's  Captain  Fitz- 
simons's  dinner !  " 

"I  beg  your  parding,  sir;  j'ou  ordered  it,"  answered  the 
man. 

"But,  good  Heavens  !  you  know  Captain  Fitzsimons  ?  " 

"  We  do,  sir,  precious  well  too.     The  capting  owes  mas- 


394  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

ter  two  underd  pound,"  answered  the  wretched  official,  and 
thrust  the  document  into  my  hand. 

No.  24.  To  Anatole  Durognon. 

£  s.  d. 

5  Dinners 1  15  0 

Sherry 0  6  0 

Sillery  champagne  (4  bottles) 2  0  0 

Asparagus 0  5  0 

Coffee  and  liqueurs 0  7  6 

Wax-lights  and  apartment 0  5  0 

£4      18        6 

And  I  must  say  that  the  bill,  considered  as  a  bill,  was 
moderate,  but  I  had  better  have  dined  off  that  Irish  stew  sA, 
the  club. 


I 


MORAL   OF   THE  PART  IE  FINE.  395 


ARABELLA;   OR,  THE  MORAL   OF   THE    ^-'PARTIE 

FINE." 

"When  the  news  came  to  Wagstaff  that  he  had  made  a 
public  appearance  in  the  New  JMonthbj  Magazine,  he  affected 
to  be  in  great  wrath  that  his  peccadilloes  should  have  been 
laid  bare  to  the  whole  nation ;  and  was  for  sacrificing  the 
individual  who  had  held  him  up  to  ridicule.  Luckily,  that 
person  was  out  of  town  for  some  days,  so  his  anger  had 
time  to  cool  if  it  were  real ;  but  the  truth  must  be  told,  that 
Lancelot  Wagstaff  was  in  heart  quite  delighted  at  being 
shown  up  for  a  seducteur,  and  has  ordered  some  new  waist- 
coats, and  affects  to  talk  very  big  about  the  French  play, 
and  has  been  growing  a  tuft  to  his  chin  ever  since.  Mrs. 
Wagstaff  still  continues  at  Bognor.  Poor  soul !  She  will 
never  know  whose  was  the  portrait  which  figured  last 
month  in  this  Miscellany  under  the  pseudonym  of  Wag- 
staff :  it  is  only  the  coincidence  of  the  new  waistcoats  and 
the  sudden  growth  of  that  tuft  that  can  by  any  possibility 
betray  him. 

Some  critics  have  hinted  that  the  scene  described  was 
immoral.  So  it  was,  there's  not  a  doubt  of  it ;  but  so  is  a 
great  deal  of  life  immoral :  so  are  many  of  Hogarth's  pic- 
tures immoral,  if  you  don't  choose  to  see  their  moral  ten- 
dency;—  nor  indeed  are  critics  to  be  very  much  blamed  for 
not  perceiving  the  moral  of  the  brief  tract  called  the  Partie 
Fine,  seeing,  as  it  were,  that  it  was  not  yet  in  sight.  No : 
it  was  purposely  kept  back,  as  a  surprise  for  the  June 
number  of  the  magazine.  This  is  going  to  be  the  moral 
paper  :  and  I  hope  to  goodness  that  Mr.  Colburn's  editor 
will  not  refuse  it,  or  I  shall  be  set  down,  in  spite  of  myself, 
as  a  writer  of  a  questionable  tendency.  I  solemnly  de- 
mand the  insertion  of  this  paper,  in  order  to  set  a  well- 
meaning  man  right  with  a  public  he  respects.  Yes,  ladies, 
you  yourselves,  if  you  peruse  these  few,  these  very  few 
pages,  will  say,  "'  Well,  although  he  shocked  us,  the  man  is 
a  moral  man  after  all."  He  is,  indeed  he  is.  Don't  believe 
the  critics  who  say  the  contrary. 


396  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

The  former  history  described  to  you  the  conduct  of  Wag- 
staff  abroad.  Ah,  ladies  !  you  little  knew  that  it  was  pre- 
paratory to  showing  the  monster  up  when  at  home.  You 
would  not  have  understood  the  wretch  had  you  not  received 
this  previous  insight  into  his  character.  If  this  be  not 
morality,  I  know  not  what  is. 

Those  people  who  at  the  club  and  elsewhere  are  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  W.  declare  he  is  the  most  generous  and 
agreeable  creature  that  ever  turned  out  of  the  city.  He 
arrives,  his  jolly  face  beaming  with  good  nature.  He  has  a 
good  word  for  everybody,  and  every  man  a  good  word  for 
him.  Some  Bachelor  says,  "Wag,  my  boy,  there  is  a 
whitebait  party  at  Greenwich ;  will  you  be  one  ?  "  He 
hesitates.  "I  promised  Mrs.  Wagstaff  to  be  home  to 
dinner,"  says  he  ;  and  when  he  says  that,  you  may  be  sure 
he  will  go.  If  you  propose  to  him  a  game  of  billiards  in 
the  afternoon,  he  will  play  till  dinner,  and  make  the  most 
ludicrous  jokes  about  his  poor  wife  waiting  till  his  return. 
If  you  ask  him  to  smoke  cigars,  he  will  do  so  till  morning, 
and  goes  home  with  a  story  to  Mrs.  W.,  which  the  poor  soul 
receives  with  a  desperate  credulity.  Once  she  used  to  sit 
up  for  him ;  but  to  continue  that  practice  would  have  killed 
her.  She  goes  to  bed  now,  and  Wagstaff  reels  in  when  he 
likes. 

He  is  not  ill-humored.  Far  from  it.  He  never  says  an 
unkind  word  to  the  children,  or  to  the  cook,  or  to  the  boy 
who  blacks  his  boots,  or  to  his  wife.  She  wishes  he  would. 
He  comes  downstairs  exactly  three  minutes  before  ofEce- 
time.  He  has  his  tea  and  his  newspaper  in  bed.  His 
eldest  daughter  brings  the  paper  in,  and  his  poor  wife 
appears  with  the  tea.  He  has  a  kind  word  for  both,  and 
scrubs  the  little  girl's  fresh  cheek  with  his  bristly  beard, 
and  laughs  at  the  joke,  and  professes  a  prodigious  interest 
in  her  lessons,  and  in  knowing  whether  Miss  Wiggles,  the 
governess,  is  satisfied  with  her;  and  before  she  finishes 
her  answer,  he  is  deep  in  the  folios  of  the  Times,  and  does 
not  care  one  farthing  piece  what  the  little  girl  says.  He 
has  promised  to  take  the  child  to  Astley's  any  time  these 
four  years.  She  could  hardly  speak  when  he  promised  it. 
She  is  a  fine  tall  lass,  and  can  read  and  write  now :  and 
though  it  was  so  long  ago,  has  never  forgotten  the  promise 
about  Astley's. 

When  he  is  away  from  home,  Wagstaff  talks  about  his 
family  with  great  affection.     In  the  long,  long  days  when 


MORAL    OF   THE   '^  PART  IE   FIXEr  397 

he  is  away,  their  mother,  God  help  her  I  is  telling  them 
what  a  good  man  their  papa  is  —  how  kind  and  generous  — 
and  how  busy  he  is  —  what  a  pity !  he  is  obliged  to  work 
so  hard  and  stay  away  from  home  !  Poor  creature,  pooi 
creature  !  Sure  Heaven  will  pardon  her  these  lies  if  any 
lies  are  pardonable.  Whenever  he  says  he  will  walk  with 
her,  Arabella  dresses  herself  in  the  gown  he  likes,  and  puts 
on  her  pink  bonnet,  and  is  ready  to  the  very  minute,  you 
may  be  sure.  How  often  is  it  that  he  is  ready  at  the  min- 
ute ?  How  many  scores  and  scores  of  times  has  he  left  the 
heart-sick  girl?  —  not  forgetting  her  in  the  least  —  but 
engaged  elsewhere  with  a  game  of  billiards,  or  a  jolly  friend 
and  a  cigar  —  and  perhaps  wishing  rather  to  be  at  home  all 
the  time  — but  he  is  so  good-natured,  such  a  capital  fellow ! 
Whenever  he  keeps  his  appointment  —  Heaven  help  us ! 
she  brightens  up  as  if  it  were  Paradise  coming  to  her. 
She  looks  with  a  triumphant  air  at  the  servant  who  opens 
the  door,  and  round  about  at  the  neighbors'  windows,  as  if 
she  would  have  all  the  world  know  that  she  is  walking 
with  her  husband.  Every  now  and  then  as  she  walks  (if 
it  is  but  twice  or  thrice  in  a  year,  for  Wagstaff  has  his 
business  on  week-days,  and  never  gets  up  till  one  of  a  Sun- 
day) ;  every  now  and  then  as  she  walks  with  him,  the 
delighted  creature  gives  a  skip,  and  squeezes  his  arm,  and 
looks  up  in  his  face,  she  is  so  happy.  And  so  is  he  too, 
for  he  is  as  good-natured  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed —  and  he 
resolves  to  take  her  out  the  very  next  Sunday  —  only  he 
doesn't.  Every  one  of  these  walk-days  are  noted  down  in 
the  poor  soul's  little  Calendar  of  Home  as  saint's  days. 
She  talks  of  them  quite  fondly  ;  and  there  is  not  one  of 
her  female  friends  whom  she  won't  visit  for  weeks  after, 
and  to  whom  she  will  not  be  sure  to  find  some  pretext  for 
recounting  the  wonderful  walk. 

Mon  Dieu,  ladies  —  all  the  time  I  was  describing  that 
affair  at  Durognon's,  those  odious  French  women  and  their 
chatter,  and  their  ogling,  and  their  champagne,  I  was  think- 
ing of  Arabella  far  away  in  the  distance  and  alone  —  I 
declare,  upon  my  honor,  she  was  never  out  of  my  thoughts 
for  a  single  minute.  She  was  the  moral  of  the  Partie  Fine 
—  the  simple,  white-robed,  spotless,  meek-eyed  angel  of  a 
wife  —  thinking  about  her  husband  —  and  he  among  the 
tawdry  good-for-nothings,  yonder !  Fizz !  there  goes  the 
first  champagne  cork,  Mr.  Wagstaff  is  making  a  tender 
speech  to  Madame  Virginie. 


398  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

At  that  moment  Arabella  is  upstairs  in  the  nursery,  where 
the  same  moon  is  shining  in,  and  putting  her  youngest  boy 
to  bed. 

Bang  !  there  goes  the  second  cork.  Virginie  screams  — 
Fitzsimons  roars  with  laughter  —  Wagstaff  hobnobs  with 
the  old  lady,  who  gives  a  wink  and  a  nod.  They  are  taking 
away  the  fish  and  putting  down  the  entrees. 

At  that  moment  Arabella  has  her  second  child  between 
her  knees  (the  little  one  is  asleep  with  its  thumb  in  its 
mouth,  and  the  elder  even  is  beginning  to  rub  her  eyes 
over  her  favorite  fairy  tale,  though  she  has  read  it  many 
scores  of  times).  Arabella  has  the  child  between  her 
knees,  and  just  as  Wag  is  clinking  his  glass  with  the  old 
lady  in  London,  his  wife  at  Bognor  says  something  to  the 
child,  who  says  after  her,  — 

"  Dod  bless  rrnj  dear  i^ajpa : "  and  presently  he  is  in  bed 
too,  and  sleeps  as  soundly  as  his  little  sister. 

And  so  it  is  that  these  pure  blessings  are  sent  —  yearning 
after  that  fellow  over  his  cups.  Suppose  they  reach  him  ? 
Why,  the  spotless  things  must  blush  and  go  out  again  from 
the  company  in  which  they  find  him.  The  drinking  goes 
on,  the  jokes  and  fun  get  faster  and  faster.  Arabella  by 
this  time  has  seen  the  eldest  child  asleep  in  her  crib,  and 
is  looking  out  at  the  moon  in  silence  as  the  children  breathe 
round  about  her  a  soft  chorus  of  slumber.  Her  mother  is 
downstairs  alone,  reading  "Blair's  Sermons,"  —  a  high- 
shouldered,  hook-nosed,  lean,  moral  woman.  She  wonders 
her  daughter  don't  come  down  to  tea  —  there  is  her  cup 
quite  cold,  with  the  cream  stagnant  on  the  surface,  and  her 
workbasket  by  its  side,  with  a  pair  of  man's  slippers  nearly 
done,  and  one  lazy  scrawl  from  her  husband,  four  lines  only, 
and  ten  days  old.  But  Arabella  keeps  away  thinking,  think- 
ing, and  preferring  to  be  alone.  The  girl  has  a  sweet  soft 
heart,  and  little  sympathy  with  the  mother's  coarse,  rigid, 
strong-minded  nature.  The  only  time  they  quarrel  is,  when 
the  old  lady  calls  her  son-in-law  a  brute :  then  the  young 
one  fires  up  and  defends  her  own  like  a  little  Amazon. 

What  is  this  secret  of  love  ?  How  does  it  spring  ?  How 
is  it  that  no  neglect  can  kill  it  ?  In  truth,  its  origin  and 
endurance  are  alike  utterly  absurd  and  unreasonable. 
What  secret  power  was  it  that  made  this  delicate-minded 
young  creature;  who  had  been  bred  up  upon  the  purest 
doctrines  of  the  sainted  Mrs.  Chapone ;  who  had  never 
thought  about  love ;  who,  simple   soul,  had   been   utterly 


MORAL   OF   THE   ''PART IE   FIXE."  399 

absorbed  in  her  little  daily  duties,  her  pianoforte  practice, 
her  French  lesson,  her  use-of-the-globes,  her  canary  bird, 
and  her  Mangnall's  questions  —  what,  I  say,  is  it  that 
makes  this  delicate  girl  all  of  a  sudden  expand  into  a  pas- 
sion of  love  for  a  young  sugar-baker,  simply  because  she 
meets  him  three  times  riding  a  gray  mare  on  Clapham 
Common,  and  afterwards  (the  sly  rogue !)  on  half  a  dozen 
occasions  at  her  aunt's  at  tea  ?  What  is  it  that  makes  her 
feel  that  that  young  sugar-baker  is  the  fatal  man  with  whom 
her  existence  is  bound  up  :  go  through  fire  and  water  to 
marry  him  :  love  him  in  spite  of  neglect  and  indifference  : 
adore  him  so  absurdly,  that  a  half-hour's  kindness  from  him 
more  than  balances  a  month's  brutality  ?  0,  mystery  of 
woman's  heart !  I  declare  all  this  lies  in  the  moral  of  the 
Partie  Fine. 

Wagstaff,  so  splendid  with  his  dinners  and  so  generous 
on  himself,  is  not  so  generous  at  home.  He  pays  the  bills 
with  only  a  few  oaths ;  but  somehow  he  leaves  his  wife 
without  money.  He  will  give  it  to  anybody  rather  than  to 
her :  a  fact  of  which  he  himself  is,  very  likely,  unaware  at 
this  minute,  or  of  tlie  timidity  of  his  wife  in  asking  for  it. 
In  order  to  avoid  this  asking,  the  poor  girl  goes  through 
unheard-of  economies,  and  performs  the  most  curious  tricks 
of  avarice.  She  dresses  herself  for  nothing,  and  she 
dresses  her  children  out  of  her  own  frocks.  Certain  dimi- 
ties, caps,  pinafores,  and  other  fallals  have  gone  through 
the  family  ;  and  Arabella,  though  she  sees  ever  such  a  pretty 
thing  in  a  shop-window,  will  pass  on  with  a  sigh ;  whereas 
her  Lancelot  is  a  perfect  devourer  of  waistcoats,  and  never 
sets  his  eyes  on  a  flaring  velvet  that  strikes  his  fancy,  but 
you  will  be  sure  to  behold  him  the  next  week  swaggering 
about  in  the  garment  in  Pall  ^NEall.  Women  are  ever  prac- 
tising these  petty  denials,  about  which  the  Lords  of  the 
Creation  never  think. 

I  will  tell  you  what  I  once  saw  Arabella  doing.  She  is 
a  woman  of  very  high  breeding,  and  no  inconsiderable  share 
of  family  pride :  well,  one  day  on  going  to  Wagstaff's 
house,  who  had  invited  a  party  of  us  to  Blackwall,  about  a 
bet  he  had  lost,  I  was,  in  the  master's  absence,  ushered  into 
the  drawing-room,  which  is  furnished  very  fine,  and  there 
sat  the  lady  of  the  house  at  her  work-table,  with  her  child 
prattling  at  her  knee. 

I  could  not  understand  what  made  ^Irs.  Wagstaff  blush 
so  —  look  so  entirely  guilty  of  something  or  other  —  fidget, 


400  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

answer  cl  travey^se,  and  receive  an  old  friend  in  this  strange 
and  inhospitable  way. 

She,  the  descendant  of  the  Smiths  of  Smithfield,  of  the 
Browns  of  Brown  Hall,  the  proud  daughter  of  the  aristoc- 
racj^,  was  mahing  a  iKiir  of  trousers  for  her  eldest  son.  She 
huddled  them  away  hastily  under  a  pillow — but  bah!  we 
have  keen  eyes  —  and  from  under  that  pillow  the  buttons 
peeped  out,  and  with  those  buttons  the  secret  —  they  were 
white  ducks  —  Wagstaff's  white  ducks  —  his  wife  was 
making  them  into  white  ducklings  for  little  Fred. 

The  sight  affected  me.  I  should  like  to  have  cried,  only 
it  is  unmanly  ;  and  to  cry  about  a  pair  of  little  breeches  !  — 
I  should  like  to  have  seized  hold  of  Mrs.  Wagstaff  and 
hugged  her  to  my  heart :  but  she  would  have  screamed,  and 
rung  for  John  to  show  me  downstairs ;  so  I  disguised  my 
feelings  by  treading  on  the  tail  of  her  spaniel  dog,  whose 
squealing  caused  a  diversion. 

But  I  shall  never  forget  those  breeches.  What !  Wag- 
staff  is  flaunting  in  a  coat  of  Nugee's,  and  his  son  has  that 
sweet,  humble  tailor.  Wagstaff  is  preparing  for  Blackwall, 
and  here  is  his  wife  plying  her  gentle  needle.  Wagstaff 
feasts  off  plate  and  frothing  wine ;  and  Arabella  sits  down 
to  cold  mutton  in  the  nursery,  with  her  little  ones  ranged 
about  her.  Wagstaff  enjoys,  Arabella  suffers.  He  flings 
about  his  gold  ;  and  she  tries  to  stave  off  evil  days  by  little 
savings  of  meek  pence.  Wagstaff  sins  and  she  forgives  — 
and  trusts,  and  loves,  and  hopes  on  in  spite  of  carelessness, 
and  coldness,  and  neglect,  and  extravagance,  and  —  and 
Parties  Fines. 

This  is  the  moral  of  the  last  story.  0,  ye  Wagstaffs  of 
this  world,  profit  by  it.  0,  ye  gentle,  meek  angels  of 
Arabellas,  be  meek  and  gentle  still.  If  an  angel  can't 
reclaim  a  man,  who  can  ?  And  I  live  in  hopes  of  hearing 
that  by  the  means  of  that  charming  mediation  the  odious 
Lancelot  has  become  a  reformed  character. 

TiTMARSH. 


GREENWICH  —  WHITEBAIT.  401 


GREENWICH  —  WHITEBAIT. 

[Colhurii's  Neio  Monthly  Magazine,  July,  1844.] 

I  WAS  recently  talking  in  a  very  touching  and  poetical 
strain  about  the  above  delicate  fish  to  my  friend  Foozle  and 
some  others  at  the  Club,  and  expatiating  upon  the  excel- 
lence of  the  dinner  which  our  little  friend  Guttlebury  had 
given  us  ;  when  Foozle,  looking  round  about  him  with  an 
air  of  triumph  and  immense  wisdom,  said,  — 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Wagstaff,  I'm  a  plain  man,  and  de- 
spise all  your  gormandizing  and  kickshaws.  I  don't  know 
the  difference  between  one  of  your  absurd  made-dishes  and 
another  —  give  me  a  plain  cut  of  mutton  or  beef.  I'm  a 
plain  Englishman,  I  am,  and  no  glutton." 

Foozle,  I  say,  thought  this  speech  a  terrible  set-down  for 
me  —  and  indeed  acted  up  to  his  principles  —  you  may  see 
him  any  day  at  six  sitting  down  before  a  great  reeking  joint 
of  meat ;  his  eyes  quivering,  his  face  red,  and  he  cutting 
great  smoking  red  collops  out  of  the  beef  before  him, 
which  he  devours  with  corresponding  quantities  of  cabbage 
and  potatoes,  and  the  other  gratis  luxuries  of  the  club- 
table. 

What  I  complain  of  is,  not  that  the  man  should  enjoy 
his  great  meal  of  steaming  beef;  let  him  be  happy  over 
that  as  much  as  the  beef  he  is  devouring  was  in  life  happy 
over  oil-cakes  or  mangel-wurzel :  but  I  hate  the  fellow's 
brutal  self-complacency,  and  his  scorn  of  other  people  who 
have  different  tastes  from  his.  A  man  who  brags  regard- 
ing himself,  that  whatever  he  swallows  is  the  same  to  him, 
and  that  his  coarse  palate  recognizes  no  difference  between 
venison  and  turtle,  pudding  or  mutton-broth,  as  his  indiffer- 
ent jaws  close  over  them,  brags  about  a  personal  defect  — the 
wretch  —  and  not  about  a  virtue.  It  is  like  a  man  boast- 
ing that  he  has  no  ear  for  music,  or  no  eye  for  color,  or  that 
his  nose  cannot  scent  the  difference  between  a  rose  and  a 
cabbage  —  I  say,  as  a  general  rule,  set  that  man  down  as  a 
conceited  fellow  who  swaggers  about  not  caring  for  his 
dinner. 


402  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Why  shouldn't  we  care  about  it  ?  Was  eating  not  made 
to  be  a  pleasure  to  us  ?  Yes,  I  say,  a  daily  pleasure  :  a 
sweet  solamen  :  a  j^leasure  familiar,  yet  ever  new,  the  same 
and  yet  how  different!  It  is  one  of  the  causes  of  domes- 
ticity :  the  neat  dinner  makes  the  husband  pleased,  the 
housewife  happy,  the  children  consequently  are  well 
brought  up  and  love  their  papa  and  mamma.  A  good  din- 
ner is  the  centre  of  the  circle  of  the  social  sympathies  — 
it  warms  acquaintanceship  into  friendship  —  it  maintains 
that  friendship  comfortably  unimpaired :  enemies  meet 
over  it  and  are  reconciled.  How  many  of  you,  dear  friends, 
has  that  late  bottle  of  claret  warmed  into  affectionate  for- 
giveness, tender  recollections  of  old  times,  and  ardent 
glowing  anticipations  of  new  !  The  brain  is  a  tremendous 
secret.  I  believe  some  chemist  will  arise  anon,  who  will 
know  how  to  doctor  the  brain  as  they  do  the  body  now,  as 
Liebig  doctors  the  ground.  They  will  apply  certain  medi- 
cines, and  produce  crops  of  certain  qualities  that  are  lying 
dormant  now  for  want  of  intellectual  guano.  But  this  is 
a  subject  for  future  speculation  —  a  parenthesis  growing 
out  of  another  parenthesis.  What  I  would  urge  especially 
here  is  a  point  which  must  be  familiar  with  every  person 
accustomed  to  eat  good  dinners  —  viz.  the  noble  and  friendly 
qualities  that  they  elicit.  How  is  it  we  cut  such  jokes 
over  them  ?  How  is  it  we  become  so  remarkably  friendly  ? 
How  is  it  that  some  of  us,  inspired  by  a  good  dinner,  have 
sudden  gusts  of  genius  unknown  in  the  quiet  unfe stive 
state  ?  Some  men  make  speeches,  some  shake  their  neigh- 
bor by  the  hand,  and  invite  him  or  themselves  to  dine  — 
some  sing  prodigiously  —  my  friend,  Saladin,  for  instance, 
goes  home,  he  says,  with  the  most  beautiful  harmonies  ring- 
ing in  his  ears  ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  will  take  any  given 
tune,  and  make  variations  upon  it  for  any  given  period  of 
hours,  greatly,  no  doubt,  to  the  delight  of  all  hearers. 
These  are  only  temporary  inspirations  given  us  by  the  jolly 
genius,  but  are  they  to  be  despised  on  that  account  ?  No. 
Good  dinners  have  been  the  greatest  vehicles  of  benevo- 
lence since  man  began  to  eat. 

A  taste  for  good  living,  then,  is  praiseworthy  in  modera- 
tion—  like  all  the  other  qualities  and  endowments  of  man. 
If  a  man  were  to  neglect  his  family  or  his  business  on  ac- 
count of  his  love  for  the  fiddle  or  the  fine  arts  —  he  would 
commit  just  the  crime  that  the  dinner-sensualist  is  guilty 
of:  but  to  enjoy  wisely  is  a  maxim  of  which  no  man  need 


GREENWICH— WHITEBAIT.  403 

be  ashamed.  But  if  you  cannot  eat  a  dinner  of  herbs  as 
well  as  a  stalled  ox,  then  3'ou  are  an  unfortunate  man  — 
your  love  for  good  dinners  has  passed  the  wholesome  bouu' 
dary,  and  degenerated  into  gluttony. 

Oh,  shall  I  ever  forget  the  sight  of  the  only  City  dinner 
I  ever  attended  in  my  life  !  at  the  hall  of  the  Eight  Wor- 
shipful Company  of  Chimney-sweepers  —  it  was  in  May, 
and  a  remarkably  late  pea-season.  The  hall  was  decorated 
with  banners  and  escutcheons  of  deceased  chummies  — 
martial  music  resounded  from  the  balconies  as  the  Master 
of  the  Compan}'  and  the  great  ones  marched  in.  We  sat 
down,  grace  was  said,  the  tureen  covers  removed,  and  in- 
stantly a  silence  in  the  hall  —  a  breathless  silence  —  and 
then  a  great  gurgle  !  —  grwlwlwlw  it  sounded  like.  The 
worshipful  Company  were  sucking  in  the  turtle  !  Then 
came  the  venison,  and  with  it  were  two  hundred  quarts  of 
peas,  at  five  and  twenty  shillings  a  quart  —  oh,  my  heart 
sank  within  me,  as  we  devoured  the  green  ones !  as  the  old 
waddling,  trembling,  winking  citizens  held  out  their  plates 
quivering  with  anxiety,  and.  said  ]\rr.  Jones,  "  A  little  bit 
of  the  f-f-fat,  another  spoonful  of  the  p-p-pe-as"  —  and  they 
swallowed  them  down,  the  prematurely  born  children  of 
the  spring  —  and  there  were  thousands  in  London  that  day 
without  bread. 

This  is  growing  serious  —  and  is  a  long  grace  before 
whitebait  to  be  sure  —  but  at  a  whitebait  dinner,  haven't 
you  remarked  that  you  take  a  number  of  dishes  first  ?  In 
the  first  place,  water-souch}^,  soochy,  or  soujy  —  flouuder- 
souchy  is  incomparably,  exquisitely  the  best  —  perch  is 
muddy,  bony,  and  tough  ;  compared  to  it,  slips  are  coarse  ; 
and  salmon  —  perhaps  salmon  is  next  to  the  flounder. 
You  hear  many  people  exclaim  against  flounder-souchy  —  I 
dined  with  Jorrocks,  Sangsue,  the  Professor,  and  one  or  two 
more,  only  the  other  day,  and  they  all  voted  it  tasteless. 
Tasteless  !  It  has  an  almost  angelic  delicacy  of  flavor :  it 
is  as  fresh  as  the  recollections  of  childhood  —  it  wants  a 
Correggio's  pencil  to  describe  it  with  sufficient  tenderness. 

"//"  a  flounder  had  two  hacks,"  Saladin  said  at  the  "  Star 
and  (j-arter  "  the  other  day,  "  it  would  be  divine  ! " 

Foolish  man,  whither  will  your  wild  desires  carry  you  ? 
As  he  is,  a  flounder  is  a  perfect  being.  And  the  best  reply 
to  those  people  who  talk  about  its  tastelessness,  is  to  say 
"  Yes,"  and  draw  over  the  tureen  to  yourself,  and  never 


404  ODDS   AND  ENDS. 

leave  it  while  a  single  slice  of  brown  bread  remains  beside 
it,  or  a  single  silver-breasted  fishlet  floats  in  the  yellow 
parsley-flavored  wave. 

About  eels,  salmon,  lobsters,  either  au  gratln  or  in  cut- 
lets, and  about  the  variety  of  sauces  —  Genevese  sauce, 
Indian  sauce  (a  strong  but  agreeable  compound),  etc.,  I 
don't  think  it  is  necessary  to  speak.  The  slimy  eel  is  found 
elsewhere  than  in  the  stream  of  Thames  (I  have  tasted  him 
charmingly  matelotted  with  mushrooms  and  onions,  at  the 
"  Marronniers  "  at  Passy),  the  lusty  salmon  flaps  in  other 
waters  —  by  the  fair  tree-clad  banks  of  Lismore  —  by  the 
hospitable  margin  of  Ballynahinch  —  by  the  beauteous 
shores  of  Wye,  and  on  the  sandy  flats  of  Scheveningen,  I 
have  eaten  and  loved  him.  I  do  not  generally  eat  him  at 
Greenwich.  Not  that  he  is  not  good.  But  he  is  not  good 
in  such  a  place.  It  is  like  Mrs.  Siddons  dancing  a  horn- 
pipe, or  a  chapter  of  Burke  in  a  novel  —  the  salmon  is  too 
vast  for  Greenwich. 

I  would  say  the  same,  and  more,  regarding  turtle.  It 
has  no  business  in  such  a  feast  as  that  fresh  and  simple 
one  provided  at  the  "  Trafalgar"  or  the  "Old  Ship."  It  is 
indecorous  somehow  to  serve  it  in  that  company.  A  fine 
large  lively  turtle,  and  a  poor  little  whitebait  by  his  side ! 
Ah,  it  is  wrong  to  place  them  by  each  other. 

At  last  we  come  to  the  bait — the  twelve  dishes  of  pre- 
paratory fish  are  removed,  the  Indian-sauced  salmon  has 
been  attacked  in  spite  of  our  prohibition,  the  stewed  eels 
have  been  mauled,  and  the  flounder-soup  tureen  is  empty. 
All  those  receptacles  of  pleasure  are  removed  —  eyes  turned 
eagerly  to  the  door,  and  enter  — 

Mr.  Derbyshire  (with  a  silver  dish  of  whitebait). 

John  (brown  bread  and  butter). 

Samuel  (lemons  and  cayenne). 

Frederick  (a  dish  of  whitebait). 

Gustavus  (brown  bread  and  butter). 

Adolphus  (whitebait). 

A  waiter  with  a  napkin,  which  he  flaps  about  the 
room  in  an  easy  degage  manner, 
"There's  plenty  more  to  follow,  sir,"  says  Mr.  D.,  whisk 
ing  off  the  cover.  Frederick  and  Adolphus  pass  rapidly 
round  with  their  dishes ;  John  and  Gustavus  place  their 
refreshments  on  the  table,  and  Samuel  obsequiously  insin- 
uates the  condiments  under  his  charge. 

Ah !   he  must  have  had  a  fine  mind  who  first  invented 


GREEX  WICH  —  WHITEBAIT.  405 

brown  bread  and  butter  with  whitebait !  That  man  was  a 
kind,  modest,  gentle  benefactor  to  his  kind.  We  don't 
recognize  sufficiently  the  merits  of  those  men  who  leave  us 
such  quiet  benefactions.  A  statue  ought  to  be  put  up  to 
the  philosopher  who  joined  together  this  chai-ming  couple. 
Who  was  it  ?  Perhaps  it  was  done  by  the  astronomer  at 
Greenwich,  who  observed  it  when  seeking  for  some  other 
discovery.  If  it  were  the  astronomer  —  why,  the  next  time 
we  go  to  Greenwich  we  will  go  into  the  Park  and  ascend 
the  hill,  and  pay  our  respects  to  the  Observatory. 

That,  by  the  way,  is  another  peculiarity  about  Greenwich. 
People  leave  town,  and  say  they  will  walk  in  the  Park  be- 
fore dinner.  But  we  never  do.  We  may  suppose  there  is 
a  Park  from  seeing  trees ;  but  we  have  never  entered  it. 
We  walk  wistfully  up  and  down  on  the  terrace  before  the 
Hospital,  looking  at  the  clock  a  great  many  times ;  at  the 
brown  old  seamen  basking  in  the  sun ;  at  the  craft  on  the 
river;  at  the  nursery-maids  mayhap,  and  the  gambols  of 
the  shrill-voiced  Jacks-ashore  on  the  beach.  But  the  truth 
is,  one's  thinking  of  something  else  all  the  time.  Of  the 
bait.  Remark  how  silent  fellows  are  on  steamboats  going 
down  to  Greenwich.  They  won't  acknowledge  it,  but  they 
are  thinking  of  what  I  tell  you. 

Well,  when  the  whitebait  does  come,  what  is  it,  after  all  ? 
Come  now.  Tell  us,  my  dear  sir,  3-our  real  sentiments 
about  this  fish,  this  little,  little  fish  about  which  we  all 
make  such  a  noise !  There  it  lies.  Lemon  it,  pepper  it : 
pop  it  into  your  mouth  —  and  what  then  ?  —  a  crisp  crunch, 
and  it  is  gone.  Does  it  realize  your  expectations  ?  Is  it 
better  than  anything  you  ever  tasted  ?  Is  it  as  good  as 
raspberry  open  tarts  used  to  be  at  school  ?  Come,  upon 
your  honor  and  conscience  now,  is  it  better  than  a  fresh 
dish  of  tittlebacks  or  gudgeons  ? 

0  fool,  to  pry  with  too  curious  eye  into  these  secrets !  O 
blunderer,  to  wish  to  dash  down  a  fair  image  because  it 
may  be  of  plaster !  0  dull  philosopher,  not  to  know  that 
pursuit  is  pleasure,  and  possession  worthless  without  it !  I, 
for  my  part,  never  will,  as  long  as  I  live,  put  to  myself 
that  question  about  whitebait.  Whitebait  is  a  butterfly  of 
the  waters  —  and  as  the  animal  mentioned  by  Lord  Byron 
invites  the  3'oung  pursuer  near,  and  leads  him  through  thy 
fields.  Cashmere  —  as  it  carries  him  in  his  chase  through  a 
thousand  agreeable  paths  scented  with  violets,  sparkling 
with  sunshine,  with  beauty  to  feast  his  eyes,  and  health  in 


406  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

the  air — let  the  right-thinking  man  be  content  with  the 
pursuit,  nor  inquire  too  curiously  about  the  object.  How 
many  hunters  get  the  brush  of  the  fox,  and  what,  when 
gotten,  is  the  worth  of  that  tawny  wisp  of  hair  ? 

Whitebait,  then,  is  only  a  little  means  for  acquiring  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure.  Somehow,  it  is  always  allied  with, 
sunshine :  it  is  always  accompanied  by  jolly  friends  and 
good-humor.  You  rush  after  that  little  fish,  and  leave  the 
cares  of  London  behind  you  —  the  row  and  struggle,  the 
foggy  darkness,  the  slippery  pavement  where  every  man 
jostles  you,  striding  on  his  way  pre-occupied,  with  care 
written  on  his  brow.  Look  out  of  the  window,  the  sky  is 
tinted  with  a  thousand  glorious  hues,  the  ships  pass  silent 
over  the  blue  glittering  waters  —  there  is  no  object  within 
sight  that  is  not  calm,  and  happy,  and  beautiful.  Yes ! 
turn  your  head  a  little,  and  there  lie  the  towers  of  London 
in  the  dim  smoky  sunset.  There  lie  Care,  Labor,  To- 
morrow. Friends,  let  us  have  another  glass  of  claret,  and 
thank  our  luck  that  we  have  still  to-day. 

On  thinking  over  the  various  whitebait  dinners  which 
have  fallen  to  our  lot  in  the  last  month,  somehow  you  are 
sure  to  find  the  remembrance  of  them  all  pleasant.  I  have 
seen  some  wretches  taking  whitebait  and  tea,  which  has 
always  inspired  me  with  a  sort  of  terror,  and  a  yearning  to 
go  up  to  the  miserable  objects  so  employed,  and  say,  "My 
good  friend,  here  is  a  crown-piece ;  have  a  bottle  of  iced 
punch,  or  a  tankard  of  delicious  cider-cup  —  but  not  tea, 
dear  sir ;  no,  no,  not  tea ;  you  can  get  that  at  home  — 
there's  no  exhilaration  in  Congo.  It  was  not  made  to  be 
drunk  on  holidays."  Those  people  are  unworthy  of  the 
"Ship"  — I  don't  wish  to  quarrel  with  the  enjoyments  of 
any  man  ;  but  fellows  who  take  tea  and  whitebait  should 
not  be  allowed  to  damp  the  festive  feelings  of  persons  bet- 
ter engaged.  They  should  be  consigned  to  the  smiling 
damsels  whom  one  meets  on  the  walk  to  Mr.  Derbyshire's, 
who  issue  from  dingy  tenements  no  bigger  than  houses  in 
a  pantomime,  and  who,  whatever  may  be  the  rank  of  the 
individual,  persist  in  saying,  "  Tea,  sir  —  I  can  accommo- 
date your  party  —  tea,  sir,  —  srimps  ?  " 

About  the  frequenters  of  Greenwich  and  the  various 
classes  of  ichthyophagi,  many  volumes  might  be  written. 
All  classes  of  English  Christians,  with  the  exception  of  her 
Majesty  and  Prince  Albert  (and  the  more  is  the  pity  that 
their   exalted   rank   deprives   them   of  an  amusement   so 


GREENWICH  —  WHITEBAIT.  407 

charming ! ),  frequent  the  hospitable  taverns  —  the  most 
celebrated  gormandizer  and  the  very  humble.  There  are 
the  annual  Ministerial  Saturnalia,  which,  whenever  I  am 
called  in  by  her  Majesty,  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in 
describing  in  these  pages,  and  in  which  the  lowest  becomes 
the  highest  for  the  occasion,  and  Taper  and  Tadpole  take 
just  as  high  a  rank  as  Lord  Eskdale  or  Lord  Monmouth. 
There  are  the  private  banquets  in  which  Lord  Monmouth 
diverts  himself  with  his  friends  from  the  little  French  — 
but  this  subject  has  been  already  touched  upon  at  much 
length.  There  are  the  lawyers'  dinners,  when  Sir  Frederick 
or  Sir  William  is  advanced  to  the  honor  of  the  bench  or 
the  attorney-generalship,  and  where  much  legal  pleasantry 
is  elicited.  The  last  time  I  dined  at  the  '*  Ship,"  hearing  a 
dreadful  Bacchanalian  noise  issuing  from  a  private  apart- 
ment, I  was  informed,  '-^Ifs  the  gentlemen  of  'Funch,''  sirJ' 
"What  would  I  not  have  given  to  be  present  at  such  an  as- 
sembly of  choice  spirits  !  Even  missionary  societies  and 
converters  of  the  Quashimdoo  Indians  come  hither  for  a 
little  easy,  harmless  pleasuring  after  their  labors,  and  no 
doubt  the  whitebait  slips  down  their  reverend  throats,  and 
is  relished  by  them  as  well  as  by  the  profane  crowd. 

Then,  in  the  coffee-room,  let  a  man  be  by  himself,  and  he 
is  never  lonely.  Every  table  tells  its  little  history.  Yon- 
der sit  three  City  bucks,  with  all  the  elegant  graces  of  the 
Custom-house  and  the  Stock  Exchange. 

"  That's  a  good  glass  of  wine,"  says  Wiggins. 

"  Ropy,"  said  Figgins  ;  "  I'll  put  you  in  a  pipe  of  that  to 
stand  3'ou  in  three  and  twenty  a  dozen." 

Once,  in  my  presence,  I  heard  a  City  "//oit^^  speak  so 
slightingly  of  a  glass  of  very  excellent  brown  sherry,  that 
the  landlord  was  moved  almost  to  tears,  and  made  a  speech, 
of  which  the  sorrow  was  only  equalled  by  the  indignation. 

Sporting  young  fellows  come  down  in  great  numbers, 
with  cutaway  coats  and  riding-whi])S,  which  must  be  very 
useful  on  the  water.  They  discourse  learnedly  about  Le- 
ander  and  Running  Rein,  and  say,  "  I'll  bet  you  three  to 
two  of  that." 

Likewise  pink-faced  lads  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge. 
Those  from  the  former  L^^niversity  wear  lavender-colored 
gloves,  and  drink  much  less  wine  than  their  jolly  comrades 
from  the  banks  of  Cam.  It  would  be  a  breach  of  confidence 
to  report  their  conversation :  but  I  lately  heard  some  very 
interesting  anecdotes  about  the  Master  of  Trinity,  and  one 
Bumpkins,  a  gyp  there. 


408  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Of  course  there  are  foreigners.  I  have  remarked  many 
"  Mosaic  Arabs  "  who  dress  and  drink  remarkably  smartly  ; 
honest,  pudding-faced  Germans,  who  sit  sentimentally  over 
their  punch ;  and  chattering  little  Frenchmen  with  stays, 
and  whiskers,  and  canes,  and  little  lacquered  boots.  These 
worthies  drink  ale  for  the  most  part,  saying,  "  Je  ne  bois 
que  I'ale,  moi,"  or  "Que  la  biere  est  bonne  en  Angleterre." 
"  Et  que  le  vin  est  mauvais,"  shrieks  out  the  pygmy  ad- 
dressed, and  so  they  club  their  sixpence,  and  remain  faith- 
ful to  the  malt-and-hoppish  liquor.  It  may  be  remarked 
that  ladies  and  Frenchmen  are  not  favorites  w4th  inn- 
waiters,  coach-guards,  cabmen,  and  such  officials,  doubtless 
for  reasons  entirely  mercenary. 

I  could  continue  for  many  more  pages,  but  the  evening 
gray  is  tingeing  the  river ;  the  packet-boat  bells  are  ringing; 
the  sails  of  the  ships  look  grayer  and  more  ghostlike  as  they 
sweep  silently  by.  It  is  time  to  be  thinking  of  returning, 
and  so  let  us  call  for  the  bill,  and  finish  with  a  moral.  My 
dear  sir,  it  is  this.  The  weather  is  beautiful.  The  white- 
bait singularly  fine  this  season.  You  are  sure  to  be  happy 
if  you  go  to  Greenwich.     Go,  then;  and,  above  all,  take 

YOUR  AMIABLE    LADY  WITH  YOU. 

Ah !  if  but  ten  readers  will  but  follow  this  advice,  Lance- 
lot Wagstaff  has  not  written  in  vain,  and  has  made  ten 
charming  women  happy ! 


THE   CHEST  OF  CIGARS.  409 


THE   CHEST   OF   CIGARS. 

BY    LANCELOT    WAGSTAFF,    ESQ. 
[The  Neio  Monthly  Magazine,  July,  1845.] 

"  Not  smoke  ?  "  said  the  gentleman  near  me. 

We  had  the  honor  of  dining  at  my  Lord  Hobanob's,  who 
"smokes"  after  dinner,  as  all  the  world  knows.  The 
person  who  spoke  was  called  the  general  by  the  company 
assembled. 

"  Not  smoke  ?  "  says  he. 

"  Why  —  I  —  that  is  —  what  would  Mrs.  Caudle  say  ?  " 
replied  I,  with  a  faint  effort  to  be  pleasant,  •'  for  the  fact 
is,  though  my  wife  doesn't  like  cigars,  I  was  once  very  fond 
of  them." 

"  Is  your  lady  a  sentimental  woman  ?  "  said  the  general. 

"  Extremely  sentimental.'' 

"'  Of  a  delicate  turn  '■  " 

'•  Very  much  so ;  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  per- 
mitted—  I  mean  that  I  have  had  any  wish  to  dine  out 
since  my  marriage,"  said  the  reader's  humble  servant. 

"'  If  I  can  prove  to  her  that  the  happiness  of  a  virtuous 
family  was  secured  by  cigars ;  that  an  admirable  woman 
was  saved  from  ruin  by  smoking ;  that  a  worthy  man  might 
have  been  driven  to  suicide  but  for  Havanas ;  do  you 
think,  sir,  that  then,  the  respected  lady  who  owns  you 
would  alter  her  opinion  regarding  the  immorality  of 
smoking  ?  " 

And  so  sa^Hng,  the  general  handed  me  his  box,  and  sent 
a  putf  so  fragrant  into  my  face,  that  I  must  own  I  took  a 
cigar  as  he  commenced  his  romantic  tale  in  the  following 
words  :  — 

"When  our  army  was  in  Holland,  in  the  time  of  the 
lamented  Duke  of  York,  the  56th  Hussars  (Queen  Char- 
lotte's Own  Slashers,  as  we  were  called  from  our  tremen- 
dous ferocity)  were  quartered  in  the  romantic  vicinity  of 
Vaterzouchy.  A  more  gallant  regiment  never  fought,  con- 
quered, or  ran  away,  and  we  did  all  in  that  campaign.     A 


410  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

better  fellow  than  our  colonel  never  existed  —  a  dearer 
friend  than  Frederick  Fantail,  who  was  lieutenant  in  the 
troop  I  had  the  honor  to  command,  mortal  never  had." 

Here  my  informant  the  general's  fine  eye  (he  had  but 
one  remaining)  filled  with  tears,  and  he  gave  a  deep  sigh 
tlirough  the  lung  which  had  not  been  perforated  at  the 
battle  of  Salamanca. 

'^  Fantail  had  one  consuming  passion  besides  military 
glory  —  this  was  smoking.  His  pipe  was  never  out  of 
his  lips  from  morning  till  night  —  till  night  ?  What  did  I 
say  ?  He  never  went  to  bed  without  this  horrible  com- 
panion, and  I  have  seen  this  misguided  young  man,  seated 
on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder  in  the  batteries,  smoking  as 
calmly  as  if  death  were  not  close  under  his  coat-tails. 

"To  these  two  passions  my  friend  speedily  added 
another :  a  love  for  the  charming  daughter  of  Burgomaster 
van  Slappenbroch,  whom  he  met  one  day  in  his  rambles. 

" '  I  should  never  probably  have  remarked  her,  Goliah,' 
he  would  say  to  me,  ^but  for  the  circumstance  that  her 
father  smoked  a  peculiar  fine  canaster.  I  longed  to  know 
him  from  that  circumstance,  and  as  he  always  moved  about 
with  his  pipe  and  his  daughter,  from  getting  to  admire  one 
I  began  to  appreciate  the  other,  and  soon  Amelia  occupied 
my  whole  soul.  My  figure  and  personal  beauty  soon 
attracted  her  attention ; 

'  In  fact, 
She  saw  and  loved  me,  who  could  resist 
Frederick  Fantail  ? ' 

"Amelia,  sir,  soon  became  Mrs.  Fantail,  but  I  shall 
spare  you  the  details  of  the  courtship  at  which  I  was  not 
present;  for  having  at  the  battle  of  Squeltersluys  (so 
creditable  to  our  arms)  had  the  good  fortune  to  run  through 
a  French  field-marshal,  and  to  receive  a  wound  in  the  knee- 
pan,  I  was  ordered  home  with  the  account  of  the  victory, 
to  lay  the  baton  I  had  taken  at  the  feet  of  my  sovereign, 
and  to  have  my  left  leg  amputated  by  the  late  eminent  Sir 
Everard  Home.  'Twas  whilst  recovering  from  this  little 
accident,  that  my  friend,  Fred  Fantail,  wooed  and  won  his 
Amelia. 

"  Of  course  he  described  her  in  his  letters  as  everything 
a  heart  could  wish ;  but  I  found  on  visiting  his  relations  in 
Baker  Street,  that  she  was  by  no  means  what  they  could 
wish.  When  1  mentioned  the  name  of  his  son,  the  brow 
of  Sir  Augustus  Fantail  grew  black  as  thunder.     Her  lady- 


THE   CHEST  OF  CIGARS.  411 

ship  looked  sad  and  faint ;  Anna  Maria  turned  her  lovely, 
imploring  eyes  upon  me  beseeching  me  to  silence,  and  I 
saw  a  gleam  of  fiendish  satisfaction  twinkling  in  the  mean 
green  squinters  of  Simon  Fantail,  Fred's  younger  brother, 
which  plainly  seemed  to  say,  'Fred  is  disinherited,  I  shall 
come  in  for  300,000/.  now.'  Sir  Augustus  had  that  sum  in 
the  family,  and  was,  as  you  all  know,  an  eminent  City  man. 

"  I  learned  from  the  lovely  Anna  Maria  (in  the  embra= 
sure  of  the  drawing-room  window,  whither  somehow  we 
retired  for  a  little  conversation  which  does  not  concern 
you),  I  learned  that  Sir  Augustus's  chief  rage  against  Fred 
arose  from  his  having  married  the  daughter  of  a  Dutch 
sugar-baker.  As  the  knight  had  been  a  dry-salter  himself, 
he  would  not  overlook  this  insult  to  his  family,  and  vowed 
he  would  cut  off  forever  the  child  who  had  so  dishonored 
him. 

"Xor  was  this  all. 

"'Oh,  major,'  said  Anna  Maria  to  me,  putting  into  my 
hands  a  little  purse,  containing  the  amount  of  all  her  sav- 
ings, 'give  him  —  give  him  this.  My  poor  Frederick  wants 
money.  He  ran  away  with  Amelia  —  how  could  they  do 
such  a  naughty,  naught}'  thing  ?  He  has  left  the  army. 
Her  father  has  discarded  her ;  and  I  fear  they  are 
starving.' 

"  Here  the  dear  child's  beautiful  hyacinthine  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  she  held  out  her  little  hand  with  the  little 
purse.  I  took  one  —  both  —  I  covered  the  one  with  kisses, 
and,  putting  the  other  into  my  bosom,  I  promised  to  deliver 
it  to  the  person  for  whom  its  affectionate  owner  intended  it. 

"  Did  1  do  so  ?  No !  I  kept  that  precious  relic  with 
thirteen  little  golden  guineas  twinkling  in  its  meshes ;  I 
wore  it  long,  long,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  under  my  waist- 
coat of  waistcoats,  and  as  for  Fred,  I  sent  him  an  order  on 
Cox  and  Greenwood's  for  five  hundred  pounds,  as  the  books 
of  that  house  will  show. 

"  1  did  more  than  this ;  knowing  his  partiality  for  cigars, 
I  bought  two  thousand  of  the  best  from  Davis  in  the  Quad- 
rant, and  despatched  them  to  my  poor  friend. 

"  '  A  wife,'  said  I,  '  is  a  good  companion,  no  doubt ;  but 
why  should  he  not,'  I  added  sportively,  '  have  Don  Amigos 
too  in  his  troubles  ? ' 

"Davis  did  not  laugh  at  this  joke,  not  understanding 
Spanish ;  but  you,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  at 
once  perceive  its  admirable  point. 


412  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

"  Thus  it  stood  then.  Amelia  was  disinherited  for  run- 
ning away  with  Fred ;  Fred  was  discarded  for  running  away 
with  Amelia.  They  were  penniless.  AVhat  could  my 
paltry  thousand  do  for  a  fellow  in  the  56th  Hussars,  where 
our  yearly  mess  bill  came  to  twelve  hundred  pounds,  and 
our  undress  boots  cost  ninety-three  guineas  a  pair  ?  You 
are  incredulous  ?  I  have  Hoby's  bills,  sir,  and  you  can  see 
them  any  day  you  call  in  Grosvenor  Square. 

"  To  proceed.  My  imprudent  friend  was  married ;  and 
was,  as  I  suspect  you  are  yourself,  sir,  henpecked.  My 
present  of  cigars  was  flung  aside  as  useless.  I  got  letters 
from  Fred  saying  that  his  Amelia  was  a  mighty  fine  lady ; 
that  though  she  had  been  bred  up  in  a  tobacco  warehouse  all 
her  life,  she  abominated  cigars  —  in  fine,  that  he  had  given 
up  the  practice  altogether.  My  little  loan  of  a  couple  of 
thousand  served  to  keep  them  going  for  some  time,  and 
they  dashed  on  as  if  there  was  no  end  to  that  small  sum. 
Ruin  ensued,  sir,  but  I  knew  not  of  the  misfortune  of  my 
friend.  I  was  abroad,  sir,  serving  my  sovereign  in  the 
West  Indies,  where  I  had  the  yellow  fever  seventeen  times. 

"  Soldiers  are  bad  correspondents,  sir.  I  did  not  write 
to  Fred  Fantail  or  hear  of  him,  except  through  a  brother 
officer,  Major  de  Boots,  of  ours,  who  joined  us  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  who  told  me  the  sad  news.  Fred  had  incurred 
debts  of  course  —  sold  out  —  gone  to  pieces:  'And  fanthy 
my  dithgutht,  my  dear  cweature,'  said  De  Boots  (you  don't 
know  him?  he  lisps  confoundedly),  'at  finding  Fwed  at 
Bwighton  giving  lethonth  in  dwawing,  and  hith  wife,  be- 
cause she  wath  a  Dutchwoman,  teaching  Fwench !  The 
fellow  wanted  to  bowow  money  of  me.' 

"  '  And  you  gave  him  some,  I  hope,  De  Boots  ? '  said  I. 

"  'Not  thickthpenth,  by  jingo,'  said  the  heartless  hussar, 
whom  I  called  out  the  next  morning  and  shot  for  his  want 
of  feeling. 

"  I  returned  to  England  to  recruit  my  strength,  which 
had  been  somewhat  exhausted  by  the  repeated  attacks  of 
fever,  and  one  day  as  I  was  taking  a  tumbler  at  the  great 
pump-room,  Cheltenham,  imagine,  sir,  my  astonishment 
when  an  enormously  stout  lady,  with  yellow  hair,  and  a 
pea-green  satin  dress,  came  up  to  me,  gazed  hard  for  a 
moment,  gave  an  hysteric  juggle  in  her  throat,  and  flung 
her  arms  round  my  neck  !  I  have  led  ninety -eight  forlorn 
hopes,  sir,  but  I  give  you  my  honor  I  never  was  so  flustered 
as  by  this  tremendous  phenomenon. 


THE   CHEST  OF  CIGARS.  413 

"'For  Heaven's  sake,  madam/  said  I,  'calm  yourself. 
Don't  scream,  —  let  me  go.     Who  are  you  ?  ' 

" '  0  my  bresairfer  ! '  said  the  lady,  still  screeching,  and 
in  a  foreign  accent.  '  Don't  you  know  me  ?  I  am  Amelia 
VandaiL' 

"  '  Amelia  V'andail  ?  '  says  I,  more  perplexed  than  ever. 

"'Amelia  van  Slappenbroch  dat  vas.  Your  friend  Vred- 
erick's  vife.  I  am  stouder  now  dan  I  vas  vhen  I  knew  you 
in  Holland.' 

"  Stouder,  indeed  !  I  believe  she  was  stouter  !  She  was 
sixteen  stone,  or  sixteen  ten,  if  she  weighed  a  pound :  I  got 
her  off  my  shoulders  and  led  her  to  a  chair.  Presently  her 
husband  joined  us,  and  I  need  not  tell  you  the  warmth  of 
my  meeting  with  my  old  friend. 

"'But  what,'  said  I  to  Fantail,  'procured  me  such  a 
warm  greeting  from  your  lovely  lady  ?  ' 

"  '  Don't  you  know  that  you  are  our  benefactor  —  our 
blessing  —  the  cause  of  our  prosperity?' 

"  '  Oh !  the  five  hundred  pounds  ! '  said  I,  '  a  mere  baga- 
telle.' 

"  '  No,  my  dearest  friend,  it  was  not  your  money,  but 
your  cigars,  saved  us.  You  know  what  a  fine  lady  my  wife 
was  when  we  were  first  married,  and  to  what  straits  our 
mutual  im[)rudence  soon  drove  us.  Who  would  have 
thought  that  the  superb  ^Nlrs.  Fantail,  who  was  so  fine  that 
she  would  not  allow  her  husband  to  smoke  a  cigar,  would 
be  brought  so  low  as  to  be  obliged  to  sing  in  the  public 
streets  for  bread  ?  —  that  the  dashing  Fred  Fantail  should 
be  so  debased  by  poverty  as  (here  my  friend's  noble  features 
assumed  an  expression  of  horrible  agony)  as  to  turn  a 
mangle,  sir. 

" '  But  away  with  withering  recollections,'  continued 
Fred.  '  We  were  so  poor,  so  wretched,  that  we  resolved  on 
suicide.  ]My  wife  and  I  determined  to  fling  ourselves  off 
Waterloo  Bridge,  and,  kissing  our  nine  innocent  babes  as 
they  slumbered,  hastened  wildly  thither  from  the  iSI"ew  Cut, 
Lambeth,  where  we  were  residing ;  but  we  forgot,  we  had 
no  money  to  pay  the  toll  —  we  were  forced  to  come  back, 
to  pass  our  door  again :  and  we  determined  to  see  the  dear 
ones  once  more  and  then  —  away  to  Westminster  ! 

'"There  was  a  smell  —  a  smell  of  tobacco  issuing  from 
the  door  of  our  humble  hut  as  we  came  up.  "Good 
Heavens  !  Mealy,"  said  I  to  my  beloved  one,  as  we  arrived 
at  the  door,  and  the  thought  flashed  across  me  —  "  there  is 


414  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

still  hope  —  still  something  left  —  the  cigars  I  received  as 
a  gift  on  my  marriage.  I  had  forgotten  them  !  they  are  ad- 
mirable !  —  they  will  sell  for  gold."  And  I  hugged  the 
innocent  partner  of  my  sufferings  to  my  bosom.  Thou 
wert  thinner  then,  dearest,  than  thou  art  now,'  said  Fantail, 
with  a  glance  of  ineffable  affection  towards  his  lady. 

"  '  AVell,  sir,  what  do  you  think  those  cigars  were  worth 
to  me  ?  '  continued  he. 

"  '  I  gave  forty  pounds  for  them  :  say  you  sold  them  for 
twenty.' 

"  ^  Twenty  !  my  dear  fellow  —  no  !  Those  cigars  were 
worth  Six  Hundred  Thousand  Pounds  to  me  !  as  you  shall 
hear.  I  said  there  was  a  smell  of  cigar  smoke  issuing  from 
our  humble  cot  —  and  why  ?  because  somebody  was  smok- 
ing cigars.  And  who  was  that  somebody  ?  Amelia's 
father,  the  burgomaster.  Van  Slappenbroch.  His  heart  had 
partially  relented  towards  his  only  child.  He  determined 
to  see  her.  He  found  out  our  wretched  abode  in  our  ab- 
sence —  saw  our  unconscious  infants  sleeping  there,  hud- 
dled on  the  straw  in  the  desolate  chamber.  The  only 
article  of  furniture  left  was  your  chest  of  cigars.  Van 
Slappenbroch  opened  it  —  tried  one  —  'twas  excellent;  a 
second  —  delicious  !  a  third  !  —  his  daughter  entered  —  the 
father  and  the  tobacconist  melted  at  once,  and  as  she 
fainted  in  his  arms  he  was  reconciled  to  us  forever ! ' 

"The  rest  of  Fantail's  story,  my  dear  sir,  you  may 
easily  imagine.  Directly  they  heard  in  Baker  Street  that 
the  Dutchman  had  pardoned  his  daughter,  and  had  given 
her  his  fortune,  of  course  old  Fantail  came  down  with  his, 
and  disinherited  that  squinting  traitor,  Simon.  '  And,  my 
dear  fellow,'  said  Fred,  '  if  you  will  drive  down  with  me  to 
Fantail  Castle,  I  will  repay  you  the  ten  thousand  pounds 
you  lent  me,  and  introduce  you  to  a  lady  —  my  sister  Anna 
Maria,  who  is  very,  very  anxious  to  renew  her  acquaintance 
with  you.' 

"  That  lady  is  now  my  wife,  sir,"  the  general  said,  get- 
ting up  to  go  away  —  "and  she  never  objects  to  smoking." 

"Who  is  the  general?"  said  I  to  our  host,  when  the 
teller  of  the  above  singular  story  had  left  the  room. 

''Don't  you  know  him?"  replied  my  Lord  Hobanob, 
with  a  smile  ;  "  you  may  believe  every  word  he  says.  That 
is  General  Sir  Goliah  Gahagan." 


BOB  ROBINSON'S  FIRST  LOVE.  415 


BOB   KOBINSON'S   FIKST   LOVE. 

BY    LANCELOT    WAGSTAFF,    ESQ. 

[Colburn's  Xeio  Monthly  Magazine,  August,  1845.] 

Clergymen  who  take  private  pupils  upon  small  livings 
in  the  west  of  England,  and  prepare  young  gentlemen  for 
the  universities  or  for  public  life,  ought  to  be  obliged  by 
law  to  destroy  their  female  offspring  as  certain  Indian 
people  do  —  or  at  least  there  should  be  convents  or  hospi- 
tals for  the  daughters  of  the  tutorizing  clergy,  where,  until 
their  papas  had  left  off  "  coaching ''  (as  the  Oxford  phrase 
was — it  is  perhaps  changed  since  our  time),  these  virgins 
should  be  carefully  immured. 

For  it  is  next  to  impossible  that  lads  of  eighteen  years 
of  age  should  be  put  in  the  daily  presence  of  a  rosy-fingered 
young  creature,  who  makes  breakfast  every  morning  in  a 
pink  frock ;  who  trips  across  the  common  with  good  things 
in  her  basket  for  the  suffering  poor  people  of  papa's  parish ; 
and  who  plays  the  most  ravishing  tunes  on  the  piano  in 
the  evening  after  tea,  when  mathematics  and  the  Greek 
plays  are  no  longer  thought  of,  when  papa  solaces  himself 
with  the  St.  James's  Chronicle:  when  Smith  and  Jones 
amuse  themselves  at  chess  ;  and  Robinson,  who  is  musically 
inclined,  accompanies  Eliza  on  the  flute  :  —  it  is  next,  I  say, 
to  impossible  that  something  should  not  happen  from  the 
presence  of  such  a  young  woman  in  a  tutor's  family  — 
something  delightful  at  its  commencement,  but  often  pro- 
ductive of  woe,  perplexity,  and  family  annoyance  ere  its 
conclusion.  Dear  madam  or  miss  !  I  will  not  insult  you 
by  naming  it  —  you  have  often  inspired  that  something, 
and  many  a  manly  heart  has  suffered  because  you  were  in- 
evitably fair  ! 

So,  too,  was  Miss  Griggs,  daughter  of  the  clergyman 
under  whose  charge  several  of  us  completed  our  education. 
He  took  a  limited  number  of  young  men  of  distinguished 
family  to  prepare  for  the  universities.     He  had  a  son  at 


416  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Cambridge,  whose  extravagance  he  would  hint  was  the 
cause  of  his  taking  pupils,  and  his  lovely  daughter,  Eliza, 
kept  his  house.  When  parents  and  guardians  would  remark 
on  the  comeliness  of  the  young  woman,  and  hint  that  her 
presence  might  be  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  mind  of  the 
pupils,  old  Griggs  would  fling  his  eyes  up  to  Heaven  and 
say,  "  I  consider  that  dear  girl,  sir,  to  be  married.  She  is 
engaged  to  her  cousin,  the  Reverend  Samuel  Butts,  fellow 
and  tutor  of  Maudlin,  and  when  the  first  living  falls 
vacant  —  alas  !  my  Eliza  will  leave  me.  Would  you  have 
me  part  with  her  now  ?  And  yet,  were  she  not  engaged, 
she  should  not  live  under  my  roof,  but  reside,  as  she  used 
to  do  previous  to  her  engagement,  with  her  angel  mother's 
family."  Here  old  Griggs's  white  handkerchief  would  come 
out,  and  as  with  a  trembling  voice  he  uttered  these  words, 
his  bald  forehead,  white  head,  hook  nose,  and  white  neck- 
cloth, never  failed  to  impose  respect  upon  his  hearers ;  and 
parents  thought  their  children  lucky  under  the  care  of  such 
a  man. 

But  Butts  was  absent :  we  saw  nothing  of  him  save  occa- 
sionally in  vacation  time,  when  he  made  his  ap]3earance  in 
the  shape  of  a  dumpy  little  flaccid-faced  man,  who  wore 
high-lows,  and  no  straps  to  his  trousers.  He  made  but  a  poor 
figure  by  the  side  of  the  brilliant  young  bucks  at  Griggs's, 
who  dressed  for  dinner,  had  their  clothes  from  Clifford 
Street,  and  wore  yellow  kid  gloves  at  church  on  Sundays. 
I  think  Miss  G.  (we  did  not  like  to  call  her  Miss  Griggs 
somehow)  must  have  seen  the  disadvantage  under  which 
her  Samuel  labored  in  the  company  of  young  men  of  the 
world.  But  he  was  an  honest  man,  great  at  the  digamma, 
and  Miss  G.  had  been  engaged  to  him  years  ago ;  before 
her  brother's  extravagance  at  college  had  compelled  pa  to 
take  pupils.  She  wore  a  lock  of  his  sandy  hair  in  a  seven- 
shilling  brooch  round  her  neck ;  and  there  was  a  sticking- 
plaster  full-length  of  him  in  his  cap  and  gown,  done  by  the 
fellow  from  Brighton,  who  had  hit  off  to  a  nicety  his  little 
bunch  of  a  nose,  and  his  dumpy,  pudgy  figure  and  high-lows, 
hanging  up  in  the  dining-room.  Eobinson  (he  who  played 
the.  flute)  used  to  look  at  that  black  figure  with  violent 
rage  and  disgust,  shake  his  fist  at  it,  utter  tremendous 
comminations  against  Butts  as  a  snob,  and  wish  that  either 
one  were  dead  or  the  other  had  never  been  born,  for  his 
soul  was  consumed  with  passion  for  Eliza  Griggs,  and  his 
heart  was  scorched  with  the  flames  of  a  first  love. 


BOB  ROBINSON'S  FIRST  LOVE.  417 

Do  not  be  alarmed  for  the  consequences,  madam ;  don't 
expect  any  harrowing  romance  —  wir  haben  auch  geliebt 
und  gelebet  —  we  have  endured  and  survived  it  as  other 
people  do.  It  is  like  the  small-pox  diminished  in  virulence, 
and  doesn't  carry  off  half  as  many  people  as  it  used  accord- 
ing to  old  accounts. 

"They  have  been  engaged  for  seven  years,"  Eobinson 
used  to  sa}',  making  us  confidants  of  his  love,  and  howling 
and  raging  about  it  as  young  men  of  his  ardent  tempera- 
ment will  do,  "  but  she  can't  care  about  him ;  I  know  she 
can't ;  look  how  the  brute  squints ;  and  see  him  eat  peas 
with  his  knife  —  I  could  thwottle  him." 

It  was  quite  true ;  Butts  had  that  obliquity,  and  con- 
sumed his  vegetables  with  the  aid  of  the  implement  in 
question.  Another  day  he  would  come  out  Avith,  "  She  was 
a  child  when  the  engagement  was  made.  He  is  a  brute  to 
hold  her  to  it.  He  might  have  married  her  years  ago,  but 
he  is  waiting  for  the  1200/.  a  year  great  living,  whicli  may 
never  fall  in.  The  selfish  scoundrel  ought  to  release  her 
from  her  engagement.  But  he  didn't.  The  promise  w^as 
there.  The  locket  hung  round  her  neck.  I  confide  these 
things  to  3'ou  as  a  friend  —  a  brother  —  Eliza  would  say. 
But  let  me  submit  to  my  destiny.  What  are  you  men  but 
selfish  ?  all,  all  selfish  ?     Unfortunate  Eliza !  " 

Don't  imagine  I  am  going  to  say  anything  disrespectful 
of  her  —  don't  fancy  I  would  hint  she  was  unfaithful  to  her 
Butts  —  in  love  matters  women  are  never  in  fault.  I  never 
heard  of  a  coquette  in  my  life  —  nor  of  a  woman  playing 
with  a  man's  affections,  and  heartlessly  flinging  him  off  — 
nor  of  a  woman's  marrying  for  money  —  nor  of  a  sly  mother 
who  coaxed  and  Avheedled  a  young  fellow,  until  somehow 
Jemima  was  off  her  hands.  iSTo,  no,  the  women  are  always 
right,  and  the  author  of  "  Mrs.  Caudle's  Lectures  "  ought 
to  be  pulled  to  pieces,  like  Orpheus,  for  vilifying  the  sex. 

Eliza,  then,  did  not  give  the  least  encouragement  to 
young  Eobinson.  though  somehow  they  were  always  to- 
gether. You  couldn't  go  into  the  garden  and  see  the  pink 
frock  among  the  gooseberry-bushes,  but  Eobinson's  green 
shooting-jacket  was  seen  sauntering  by  —  in  the  evening 
their  flute  and  piano  were  always  tweedledeedling  in  con- 
cert —  and  they  never  stopped  until  they  had  driven  us  out 
of  the  room  with  their  music,  when  unaccountably  the  duet 
would  cease ;  how  was  it  that  when  miss  was  on  the  land- 
ing-place, Eobinson  was   always  coming  upstairs  ?     So  it 


418  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

was  though.  They  were  talking  about  Mr.  Butts  probably. 
What  was  that  lock  of  hair  Robinson  kept  in  his  desk  ?  It 
may  have  been  his  sister's,  his  grandmother's.  Were  there 
not  many  people  with  black  hair  besides  Eliza  ?  And  yet 
the  ill-natured  might  have  fancied  that  some  mercenary 
motives  influenced  the  pure  heart  of  Miss  Eliza.  Robinson, 
though  eight  years  younger  than  herself,  was  perhaps  a 
catch  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view.  He  was  the  son  of  the 
famous  banking-house  of  Hobbs,  Dobbs,  and  Robinson ;  and 
when  arrived  at  five  and  twenty  (for  as  for  Hobbs  and  Dobbs 
they  were  myths  like  Child,  Coutts,  and  others),  would  take 
his  seat  as  head-partner  of  the  house.  His  widowed  mother 
was  a  Miss  Rolfe,  daughter  of  Admiral  Rolfe,  and  sister  of 
General  Sir  Hugh  Rolfe,  K.C.B.  Mr.  Rolfe  Robinson  our 
young  friend  was  called,  being  not  a  little  proud  of  his 
double-barrelled  name.  By  us  he  was  denominated  Rich 
Robinson,  Kid  Robinson,  or  Band-box  Robinson,  alluding 
to  the  wealth  to  which  he  was  heir,  and  the  splendor  of  his 
person  —  or  finally,  in  compliment  to  a  hesitation  in  his 
speech  which  he  possessed  —  Staggering  Bob.  He  was,  be- 
tween ourselves,  a  weak,  fair-haired,  vapid,  good-natured 
fellow :  at  Eton  he  was  called  Miss  Robinson.  Every  one 
of  his  nicknames  justly  characterized  some  peculiarity  about 
the  honest  fellow. 

Hufile  (belonging  to  the  firm),  Rolfe,  his  uncle,  and  his 
mother,  were  joint  guardians  of  this  interesting  heir.  His 
lady  mother  spent  her  jointure  in  a  stately  way,  occupying 
a  great  house  in  Portman  Square,  and  giving  grand  parties 
in  the  season,  whereof  the  Morning  Post  made  mention. 
Royal  dukes,  ambassadors,  never  less  than  three  marquises ; 
Griggs,  our  tutor,  never  failed  to  read  the  names  of  these 
guests,  to  talk  about  them  at  dinner  —  and  I  think  felt 
proud  at  having  Mrs.  Robinson's  son  in  his  house,  who  en- 
tertained such  exalted  company.  He  always  helped  Bob 
first  in  consequence,  and  gave  him  the  wings  of  the  fowls, 
and  the  outside  of  the  fillet  of  veal. 

However,  Mrs.  Robinson  had  many  daughters  older  than 
Bob ;  and  though  she  lived  so  splendidly,  and  though  Bob 
was  to  be  chief  of  the  banking-house,  the  young  man  him- 
self was  not  very  well  supplied  with  cash  by  his  mother. 
But  he  did  not  want  for  friends  elsewhere,  and  there  was  a 
certain  old  clerk  in  the  bank  who  furnished  his  young  mas- 
ter with  any  sums  that  he  required — "out  of  regard  for 
his  dear  father  "  the  before-mentioned  clerk  used  to  say  — 


BOB  ROBINSON'S  FIRST  LOVE.  419 

of  course  never  expecting  to  be  paid  back  again,  or  to  curry 
favor  with  his  young  principal  so  soon  as  he  took  the  di- 
rection of  affairs.  From  this  man  Robinson  used  to  get 
down  chests  of  cigars  and  cases  of  liquors  and  champagne 
which  he  consumed  in  secret,  at  a  certain  cottage  in  the 
village.  Xokes  it  was  who  provided  surreptitious  funds 
for  the  hiring  of  tandems,  which,  in  our  youthful  days,  we 
delighted  to  drive.  Many  a  man  at  Griggs's,  who  had  only 
his  own  father's  purse  to  draw  upon,  envied  Eobinson  such 
an  invaluable  friend  as  Xokes. 

Well,  this  youth  was  in  love  with  Miss  Eliza  Griggs. 
Her  father  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  passion  of  course  — 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  Fathers  are  so  proverbi- 
ally blind  ! 

Young  Griggs,  the  Cambridge  man,  seldom  came  down 
among  us,  except  to  bleed  the  governor.  A  wild  and  im- 
petuous 3'oung  man  he  was ;  not  respectable,  and  of  a  bad 
set  —  but  we  lads  respected  him  because  he  was  a  man,  and 
had  rooms  of  his  own,  and  told  us  stories  about  Proctors 
and  Newmarket ;  and  had  a  cutaway  green  coat  and  large 
whiskers  —  to  all  of  which  honors  we  one  day  hoped  to 
come. 

One  Easter  vacation  when  young  Griggs  came  down,  how- 
ever, we  observed  he  watched  his  sister  and  Eobinson  very 
keenly ;  spoke  harshly  to  the  former,  at  which  the  latter 
would  grow  very  angry ;  and  finally,  one  day  after  dinner, 
when,  as  usual  after  the  second  glass  of  port,  Griggs  had 
given  the  signal  for  retiring,  touched  Robinson  on  the 
shoulder  as  we  were  quitting  the  dining-room,  and  said, 
'•'  Mr.  Robinson,  I  would  wish  to  have  a  word  with  you  on 
the  lawn."  At  this  summons  I  observed  Robinson  turn  as 
red  as  a  carrot,  and  give  a  hurried  glance  at  Eliza,  who  very 
nearly  dropped  the  bottle  she  was  locking  up  of  old  Griggs's 
fiery  port  wine. 

The  particulars  of  the  interview  between  the  two  gentle- 
men Robinson  narrated  to  me  that  very  evening  (indeed  he 
told  everybody  everything  concerning  himself).  "  Griggs  " 
(says  he^  ''has  been'asking  me  what  my  intentions  are  with 
regard  to  Eliza.  He  says  my  attentions  to  her  are  most  re- 
markable ;  that  I  must  have  known  she  was  already  an  en- 
gaged person,  though  he  didn't  care  to  confess  that  the 
engagement  was  one  into  which  his  sister  had  been  forced, 
and  which  had  never  been  pleasing  to  her  —  but  that  it  was 
impossible  that  my  attentions  should  continue,  or  the  poor 
girl's  affections  be  tampered  with  any  further." 


420  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

"  Tampered  with  !  says  I "'  (continued  Robinson,  speak- 
ing for  himself),  "I  tamper  with  the  affections  of  Miss 
Griggs  !  " 

"  By  Jove,  sir,  do  }' ou  mean  to  say  that  you  have  not  ? 
Haven't  you  given  her  a  pearl  bracelet  and  a  copy  of 
Thomas  Moore's  poems  ?  Haven't  you  written  copies  of 
verses  to  her,  three  in  English  and  one  in  Latin  Alcaics  ? 
Do  you  suppose,  sir,  as  a  man  of  honor,  I  can  allow  my 
sister's  feelings  to  be  played  with,  and  you  an  inmate  un- 
der my  unsuspecting  father's  roof  ?  I^o,  sir,  things  can't 
end  here.  You  must  either  declare  yourself  or  —  you  know 
the  alternative." 

Here  he  gave  a  tremendous  scowl,  and  his  eyes  flashed 
so,  and  his  bushy  whiskers  curled  round  his  face  so  fiercely, 
that  Eobinson,  a  timid  man,  —  as  almost  all  men  who  play 
on  the  flute  are,  —  felt  no  small  degree  of  perturbation. 

"But  I  do  declare  myself,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 
"  I  declare  that  I  love  your  sister  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
young  heart ;  that  she  is  the  object  of  my  daily  thoughts 
and  my  nightly  sighs  —  my  soul's  pole  star  —  my  —  my  "  — 

"Never  mind  any  more,  sir,"  replied  young  Griggs,  some- 
what appeased  ;  "  you  have  said  all  this  in  your  poetry 
already."     As  Eobinson  confessed  indeed  he  had. 

The  result  of  the  interview  between  the  young  men  was, 
that  Robinson  fully  declared  himself  the  adorer  of  Eliza, 
and  promised  to  marry  her  immediately  on  the  consent  of 
his  mother  and  guardians,  if  not  now,  upon  his  coming  of 
age,  and  entering  into  the  banking  business  which  he  was 
heir  to. 

"  I  may  consider  myself  authorized  on  your  part,  then,  to 
make  this  proposal  to  my  sister  ?  "  said  Griggs. 

To  which  Bob  agreed,  and  as  Griggs  thought  the  offer 
had  best  come  in  writing,  Robinson  and  he  retired  to  the 
former's  room,  where  a  paper  was  drawn  out  at  Griggs's  di- 
rection, and  signed  by  the  lover  of  Eliza. 

But  the  strange  part  of  the  story,  and  the  proof  of  what 
I  before  advanced,  viz.,  that  Eliza  was  perfectly  innocent 
and  unconscious  of  the  effects  produced  by  her  fatal  beauty 
—  was  that  when  George  Griggs,  her  brother,  carried  her 
the  offer,  she  vowed  she  had  never  been  so  surprised  in  her 
life  —  had  never  given  Mr.  Robinson  the  least  encourage- 
ment—  had,  it  is  true,  received  presents  of  books  from  him 
and  verses,  which  she  regarded  as  mere  proofs  of  schoolboy 
friendship,  a  frolic  —  liked  him  very  much  certainly  as  a 


BOB  ROBINSON'S  FIRST  LOVE.  421 

brother,  a  younger  brother,  in  whose  welfare  she  should 
ever  feel  the  tenderest  interest,  for  whose  happiness  she 
should  ever  pray  — but  she  was  already  engaged  to  Mr.  Butts. 

Bob  professed  to  be  broken-hearted  by  this  sentence  of 
Eliza's,  but  we  all  saw  there  was  hope  for  him,  and  that  if 
the  engagement  with  Butts  could  be  broken,  he  might  then 
aspire  to  the  bliss  which  he  desiderated.  As  for  checking 
him  in  his  desires,  or  pointing  out  the  folly  of  his  marriage 
at  eighteen  with  a  young  lady  of  four  and  twenty,  that  was 
a  point  which  struck  none  of  us  —  on  the  contrary,  our 
pleasure  was  to  suppose  that  old  Griggs  would  refuse  con- 
sent, that  an  elopement  would  take  place  in  consequence, 
which  Bob's  friends  would  have  the  fun  of  arranging ;  and 
we  even  inspected  the  post-chaise  at  the  Green  Dragon, 
and  ascertained  the  condition  of  the  posters  kept  there  in 
anticipation  of  such  a  romantic  event  —  not  that  Eliza 
would  have  consented,  of  course  not  —  I  would  not  suppose 
that  she  or  any  other  woman  would  do  such  a  thing,  and 
mention  tliis  as  an  instance,  not  of  her  indiscretion,  but  of 
our  youthful  folly. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  George  Griggs  returned  to  the  univer- 
sity, having  made  an  unsuccessful  application,  he  said, 
upon  the  governor's  feelings,  to  induce  him  to  break  off  his 
sister's  marriage  with  Butts. 

"The  old  gentleman's  honor  was  bound,"  his  son  said; 
"  he  wished  it  were  otherwise,  but  having  pledged  his  word 
he  could  not  withdraw  it :  and  as  soon  as  Butts  pleased  he 
might  claim  his  bride.  The  living  Butts  desires  must  soon 
fall  in,"  he  added.  "  Hicky  has  had  two  fits  of  apoplexy 
already.     Give  liim  a  third,  and  it  will  be  too  late." 

With  this  intimation  George  Griggs  departed,  informing 
his  young  friend  at  tlie  same  time,  that  although  he  would 
gladly  have  shaken  his  hand  as  a  brother-in-law,  that  rela- 
tionship appeared  now  to  be  impossible  ;  and  that  if  he 
heard  of  the  least  further  communication  between  Bob  and 
his  sister,  he  should  be  obliged  to  return  from  Cambridge 
in  a  character  most  painful  to  him. 

"  Why,  why,"  said  he,  '*  did  you  come  into  our  house  and 
bring  wretchedness  into  our  peaceful  family  ?  Before  she 
saw  5^ou  my  sister  was  happy  —  contented  at  least  with 
her  lot  —  now  she  only  looks  forward  to  it  with  terror,  and 
I  dread  to  think  of  the  consequences  —  that  match  will 
kill  her,  sir  —  I  know  Eliza's  heart  —  she  will  die,  sir  — 
and,  mind  me,  there  must  be  other  victims  if  she  do  !  " 


422  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

I  don't  know  whether  Bob  was  touched,  or  terrified,  or 
delighted  by  this  announcement  —  delighted  to  be  the  x^os- 
sessor  of  such  charms  —  touched  by  the  cruel  havoc  they 
caused  —  or  terrified  at  the  consequences  which  might 
ensue  to  himself  from  the  exercise  of  his  fatal  power  to 
please  ;  however,  he  determined  Miss  Griggs  should  not 
die. 

He  accordingly  wrote  off  the  following  letter  to  his  cor- 
respondent :  — 

"  My  dear  Nokes, —  Send  me  down  fifty  pounds,  and  a  case  of  pis- 
tols, and  put  them  down  to  my  account.  Counting  upon  receiving 
your  parcel  and  remittance  per  coach,  Wednesday,  I  shall  leave  this 
on  Wednesday  evening  at  eleven,  drive  through  London  to  the  Angel, 
Islington,  and  be  there  probably  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Have  a  carriage  and  four  waiting  for  me  there,  and  you  may  as  well 
bring  fifty  pounds  more,  for  posting  is  dear,  and  I  am  going  to  the 
North.  Don't  fail  me  at  this  most  critical  juncture  of  my  life,  and 
count  upon  the  eternal  gratitude  of 

"Egbert  Rolfe  Robinson." 

When  the  faithful  Nokes  received  this  letter,  he  for  some 
time  could  not  understand  the  nature  of  its  contents,  until 
at  last  the  real  nature  flashed  upon  him  that  his  young 
master  was  going  to  run  away  Avith  some  lady,  and  ruin 
his  own  and  Nokes's  prospects  for  life. 

We  made  it  all  right  meanwhile  about  the  horses  at  the 
Green  Dragon,  which  were  to  be  ready  at  eleven  o'clock  on 
Wednesday  evening  ;  and  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day, 
walked  down  to  Puddley  Heath,  two  miles  from  our  par- 
sonage, where  the  London  coach  passed,  and  we  made  sure 
of  finding  our  parcel. 

Instead  of  the  parcel  it  was  little  Nokes  himself  who 
jumped  off  the  box,  and,  giving  Eobinson  a  squeeze  of  the 
hand,  and  a  nod  of  the  head,  pointed  significantly  to  the 
carpet-bag,  Avhich  the  hostler  was  handing  down,  and  which, 
no  doubt,  contained  the  money  and  the  pistols.  What  the 
deuce  we  wanted  with  pistols,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
ascertain  —  it  was  Tolmash,  our  comrade  at  Griggs's,  who 
suggested  the  pistols,  as  we  sat  in  conspiracy  over  the 
affair  (for  we  delighted  in  it,  and  had  hours  and  hours  of 
consultation  every  night  concerning  it),  it  was,  I  say,  Tol- 
mash suggested  the  pistols,  taking  a  hint  from  a  picture  in 
"  Tom  and  Jerry,"  in  which  a  fellow  is  represented  as 
running  away  to  Gretna  Green,  and  pointing  the  "  bar- 
kers "  at  the  governor,  who  is  just  galloping  up. 


BOB  ROBINSON'S  FIRST  LOVE.  423 

Bob  was  so  impatient  to  see  these  weapons  that  it  was 
with  great  difficulty  Xokes  could  restrain  him  from  exam- 
ining them  on  the  high-road,  but  we  waited  nntil  we  got  a 
private  room  at  the  Green  Dragon,  where  the  weapons 
were  shown,  and  where  Bob  explained  at  full  length  and 
with  great  eloquence  his  purpose  of  abduction. 

"  There  was  a  gal,  a  beufle  gal,  whose  heart  was  bweak- 
ing  for  him,  and  whose  pawents  wouldn't  let  him  marwy 
—  he  was  determined  to  run  away  with  her  if  he  couldn't 
get  her  —  to  blow  his  bwains  out,"  etc.,  etc. 

All  this  Bob  told  with  great  sputtering  and  emotion  over 
a  glass  of  brandy  and  water.     Nokes  looked  grave. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  parson's  daughter  you  wrote  me 
about,  that  I  sent  the  necklace  down  for.  I  thought  that 
would  have  been  enough  for  her.  Lord,  Lord,  what  fools 
you  young  men  are,  ]\Ir.  Bob  !  " 

"  Fools  !  if  you  call  me  a  fool,  or  bweathe  a  word  against 
Eliza,  I'll  kick  you  wound  the  woom,"  roared  Bob,  who 
didn't  seem  to  have  much  regard  for  his  father's  old 
friend. 

"  Well,  well  —  stop  —  you'll  regret  it  in  after  life  ;  and 
remember  the  words  of  poor  old  faithful  Jack  Nokes ; 
but  never  mind  that.  I  can  take  a  hard  word  from  your 
father's  son.  Here  are  the  pistols ;  j^ou'd  best  not  take 
them  to  the  house,  as  you'll  get  into  the  carriage  here,  I 
presume.  Here's  the  money  —  please  just  acknowledge  it 
—  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  business  —  kick  Jack  Nokes 
round  the  room,  indeed  !  " 

Bob  seized  ^Ir.  Nokes's  hand  with  eagerness,  swore  he 
was  his  best  and  deawest  fwiend,  as  he  should  find  when  he 
came  into  Lombard  Street :  and  then,  being  armed  with 
the  sinews  of  war,  the  chaise  was  ordered  at  eleven,  and 
we  all  departed  for  the  vicarage. 

I  repeat  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  Miss  Griggs  — 
she  wouldn't  have  come  very  likely  —  she  would  have 
spurned  the  proposition  with  scorn,  and  refused  to  run 
away  altogether,  even  if — even  if  a  circumstance  had  not 
happened  which  rendered  that  measure  impossible. 

At  about  nine  o'clock — the  moon  was  rising  beautifully 
over  the  old  church  —  Bob  was  packing  his  portmanteau 
for  the  expedition  and  laboriously  striving  to  thrust  in  a 
large  dressing-case  full  of  silver  saucepans,  gold  razors, 
etc.,  which  must  have  been  particularly  useful  to  him,  as 
he  had  no  beard  as  yet.     We  were  making  ready  for  the 


424  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

start,  I  say,  when  a  letter  was  brought  for  R.  Eolfe  Robin- 
son, Esquire,  in  the  well-known  commercial  running-hand 
of  Mr.  Nokes. 

**^ir,  —  Though  I  may  lose  your  friendship  forever,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  prevent  this  mad  step  on  your  part.  I  have  written  to  Mr. 
Griggs,  warning  liim  solemnly,  and  threatening  him  with  law  proceed- 
ings and  ruin,  from  which  1  am  confident  I  have  saved  you.  I  was  at 
school  with  your  father,  and  saved  him  too,  and  devote  myself  to  the 
son  as  to  him. 

"  I  have  taken  the  post-chaise  and  the  pistols  back  to  town  with 
me.  Yours  respectfully, 

''John  Nokes." 

Bob  was  bursting  out  in  an  oath,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  our  respected  tutor,  the  Reverend  Frederic  Griggs, 
made  his  awful  appearance,  candle  in  hand,  and  with  a 
most  agitated  countenance. 

"  What  is  this  that  I  hear,  Mr.  Robinson  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed. "What  news,  sir,  is  this  for  a  tutor  and  a-a 
f-f-f-ather  ?  Have  I  been  harboring  a  traitor  in  my  bosom 
—  a  serpent  that  would  sting  my  innocent  child  —  so 
young  and  so  corrupted !     Oh,  heavens  !  " 

And  he  proceeded  into  an  oration  which  I  pretermit,  and 
which  lasted  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Griggs  had  a  flux 
of  words,  and  which  imposed  greatly  upon  parents  and 
guardians  during  a  first  visit  or  two,  but  became  intolerably 
tedious  to  us  who  were  forced  to  hear  it  every  day.  He 
left  us  after  the  oration,  saying  he  was  about  to  retire,  and 
pray  for  the  misguided  young  men,  who  had  entered  into  a 
conspiracy  against  a  fond  father's  peace. 

Robinson  was  wild.  He  talked  of  suicide,  but  the  pis- 
tols were  gone,  and  he  didn't  think  of  using  the  gold  razors 
in  the  grand  new  dressing-case.  We  sat  with  him,  and 
tried  to  pacify  him  with  philosophy,  and  a  bottle  of  cherry- 
brandy.  We  left  him  at  three  o'clock,  and  he  told  us 
afterwards  that  he  rushed  frantically  out  of  the  room,  to 
Miss  Griggs's  bedroom,  and  cried  out  passionately,  "Eliza, 
Eliza ! "  The  door  was  locked,  of  course,  he  could  hear 
sobbing  from  within,  accompanied  by  the  heavy  snore  of 
Mrs.  West,  the  housekeeper,  who  was  placed  as  dragon 
over  the  weeping  virgin.  Poor  soul !  she  did  not  come 
down  in  her  pink  frock  to  breakfast  next  morning. 

But  about  that  hour,  up  drove  General  Sir  Hugh  Rolfe, 
an  apoplectic,  goggle-eyed,  white-whiskered  little  general, 
tightly  girthed  round  the  waist,  with  buckskin  gloves,  and 


BOB  ROBINSON'S  FIRST  LOVE.  425 

a  bamboo  cane,  at  whose  appearance,  as  he  rolled  out  of  the 
yellow  post-chaise,  poor  Bob  turned  ashy  pale. 

We  presently  heard  the  general  swearing  in  the  passage, 
and  the  voice  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Griggs  raised  in  meek 
expostulation. 

"  Fetch  down  his  things  —  don't  humbug  me,  ^ir  —  infa- 
mous   swindle,  sir.     Bring  down  Mr.  Robinson's    bags  — 

d d  impostor,  sir,"  and  so  on.     Volleys  of  oaths  were 

let  off  by  the  fiery  little  man,  which  banged  and  exploded 
in  our  little  hall  like  so  many  Vauxhall  crackers. 

Our  friend  was  carried  off.  Our  own  relatives  caused  us 
to  be  removed  speedily  from  Griggs's,  under  the  plea  that 
his  daughter  was  a  dangerous  inmate  of  a  tutor's  house, 
and  that  he  might  take  a  fancy  to  make  her  run  away  with 
one  of  us.  Nokes  even  said  that  the  old  gentleman  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  offer  to  make  it  worth  his  while  if  he 
would  allow  the  enlevement  to  take  place  —  but  the  Rever- 
end Frederic  Griggs  replied  triumphantly  to  these  calum- 
nies, by  marrying  his  daughter  to  the  Reverend  Samuel 
Butts  (who  got  his  living  by  the  death  of  the  apoplectic 
incumbent),  and  she  is  the  mother  of  many  children  by 
him,  and  looks  at  that  angel  face  of  his  with  a  fond  smile, 
and  asks,  "  Wlio  but  you,  love,  could  ever  have  touched 
the  heart  of  Eliza  ?  " 


426  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 


THE   DIGNITY   OF  LITEKATUEE. 

[To  the  Editor  of  the  Morning  Chronicle.'] 

Sir,  —  In  a  leading  article  of  your  journal  of  Thursday, 
the  3d  instant,  you  commented  upon  literary  pensions  and 
the  status  of  literary  men  in  this  country,  and  illustrated 
your  arguments  by  extracts  from  the  story  of  Pendennis, 
at  present  in  course  of  publication.  You  have  received 
my  writings  with  so  much  kindness,  that,  if  you  have 
occasion  to  disapprove  of  them  or  the  author,  I  can't  ques- 
tion your  right  to  blame  me,  or  doubt  for  a  moment  the 
friendliness  and  honesty  of  my  critic ;  and  however  I 
might  dispute  the  justice  of  your  verdict  in  my  case,  I 
had  proposed  to  submit  to  it  in  silence,  being  indeed 
very  quiet  in  my  conscience  with  regard  to  the  charge 
made  against  me. 

But  another  newspaper  of  high  character  and  repute 
takes  occasion  to  question  the  principles  advocated  in  your 
article  of  Thursday,  arguing  in  favor  of  pensions  for  literary 
persons  as  you  argued  against  them  ;  and  the  only  point 
upon  which  the  Examiner  and  the  Chronicle  appear  to 
agree,  unluckily,  regards  myself,  who  am  offered  up  to 
general  reprehension  in  two  leading  articles  by  the  two 
writers  :  by  the  latter  for  "  fostering  a  baneful  prejudice" 
against  literary  men ;  by  the  former  for  "  stooping  to  flat- 
ter "  this  prejudice  in  the  public  mind,  and  "  condescend- 
ing to  caricature  (as  is  too  often  my  habit)  my  literary 
fellow-laborers,  in  order  to  pay  court  to  the  non-literary 
class." 

The  charges  of  the  Examiner  against  a  man  who  has 
never,  to  his  knowledge,  been  ashamed  of  his  profession,  or 
(except  for  its  dulness)  of  any  single  line  from  his  pen, 
grave  as  they  are,  are,  I  hope,  not  proven.  "  To  stoop  to 
flatter  "  any  class  is  a  novel  accusation  brought  against  my 
writings  ;  and  as  for  my  scheme  "  to  pay  court  to  the  non- 
literary  class  by  disparaging  my  literary  fellow-laborers," 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE.  427 

it  is  a  design  which,  would  exhibit  a  degree  not  only  of 
baseness  but  of  folly  upon  my  part  of  which,  I  trust,  I  am 
not  capable.  The  editor  of  the  Examiner  may  perhaps 
occasionally  write,  like  other  authors,  in  a  hurry,  and  not 
be  aware  of  the  conclusions  to  which  some  of  his  sentences 
may  lead.  If  I  stoop  to  flatter  anybody's  prejudices  for 
some  interested  motives  of  my  own,  I  am  no  more  nor  less 
than  a  rogue  and  a  cheat ;  which  deductions  from  the 
Examiner''s  premisses  I  will  not  stoop  to  contradict,  be- 
cause the  premisses  themselves  are  simply  absurd. 

I  deny  that  the  considerable  body  of  our  countrymen 
described  by  tlie  Examiner  as  the  "  non-literary  class  "  has 
the  least  gratification  in  witnessing  the  degradation  or  dis- 
paragement of  literary  men.  Why  accuse  the  '•  non-literary 
class "  of  being  so  ungrateful  ?  If  the  writings  of  an 
author  give  the  reader  pleasure  or  profit,  surely  the  latter 
will  have  a  favorable  opinion  of  the  person  who  benefits 
him.  What  intelligent  man,  of  whatsoever  political  views, 
would  not  receive  with  respect  and  welcome  that  writer  of 
the  Examiner  of  wliom  your  paper  once  said  that  '"he  made 
all  England  laugh  and  think  "*  ?  Who  would  deny  to  that 
brilliant  wit,  that  polished  satirist,  his  just  tribute  of 
respect  and  admiration  ?  Does  any  man  who  has  written 
a  book  worth  reading  —  any  poet,  historian,  novelist,  man 
of  science  —  lose  reputation  by  his  character  for  genius  or 
for  learning  ?  Does  he  not,  on  the  contrary,  get  friends, 
sympathy,  applause  —  money,  perhaps  ?  —  all  good  and 
pleasant  things  in  themselves,  and  not  ungenerously 
awarded  as  they  are  honestly  won.  That  generous  faith  in 
men  of  letters,  that  kindly  regard  in  which  the  whole  read- 
ing nation  holds  them,  appear  to  me  to  be  so  clearly  shown 
in  our  country  every  day,  that  to  question  them  would  be 
absurd,  as,  permit  me  to  say  for  my  part,  it  would  be  un- 
grateful. What  is  it  that  fills  mechanics'  institutes  in  the 
great  provincial  towns  wlien  literary  men  are  invited  to 
attend  their  festivals  ?  Has  not  every  literary  man  of 
mark  his  friends  and  his  circle,  his  hundreds  or  his  tens  of 
thousands  of  readers  ?  And  has  not  every  one  had  from 
these  constant  and  affecting  testimonials  of  the  esteem  in 
which  they  hold  him  ?  It  is  of  course  one  writer's  lot, 
from  the  nature  of  his  subject  or  of  his  genius,  to  command 
the  sympathies  or  awaken  the  curiosity  of  many  more 
readers  than  shall  choose  to  listen  to  another  author ;  but 
surely  all  get  their  hearing.     The  literary  profession  is  not 


428  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

held  in  disrepute ;  nobody  wants  to  disparage  it,  no  man 
loses  liis  social  rank,  whatever  it  may  be,  by  practising  it. 
On  the  contrary  ;  the  pen  gives  a  place  in  the  world  to  men 
who  had  none  Ijefore,  a  fair  place,  fairly  achieved  by  their 
genius,  as  any  other  degree  of  eminence  is  by  any  other 
kind  of  merit.  Literary  men  need  not,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
be  in  the  least  querulous  about  their  position  any  more,  or 
want  the  pity  of  anybody.  The  money-prizes  which  the 
chief  among  them  get  are  not  so  high  as  those  which  fall 
to  men  of  other  callings  —  to  bishops,  or  to  judges,  or  to 
opera-singers  and  actors,  nor  have  they  received  stars  and 
garters  as  yet,  or  peerages  and  governorships  of  islands, 
such  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  military  officers.  The  rewards  of 
the  profession  are  not  to  be  measured  by  the  money  stand- 
ard, for  one  man  may  spend  a  life  of  learning  and  labor  on 
a  book  which  does  not  pay  the  printer's  bill;  and  another 
gets  a  little  fortune  by  a  few  light  volumes.  But  putting 
the  money  out  of  the  question,  I  believe  that  the  social 
estimation  of  the  man  of  letters  is  as  good  as  it  de- 
serves to  be,  and  as  good  as  that  of  any  other  professional 
man. 

With  respect  to  the  question  in  debate  between  you  and 
the  Examiner,  as  to  the  propriety  of  public  rewards  and 
honors  to  literary  men,  I  don't  see  why  men  of  letters 
should  not  cheerfully  coincide  with  Mr.  Examiner,  in 
accepting  all  the  honors,  places,  and  prizes  which  they  can 
get.  The  amount  of  such  as  will  be  awarded  to  them  will 
not,  we  may  be  pretty  sure,  impoverish  the  country  much ; 
and  if  it  is  the  custom  of  the  State  to  reward  by  money,  or 
titles  of  honor,  or  stars  and  garters  of  any  sort,  individuals 
who  do  the  country  service  ;  and  if  individuals  are  gratified 
by  having  Sir,  or  my  Lord,  appended  to  their  names,  or 
stars  and  ribbons  hooked  on  to  their  coats  and  waistcoats,  as 
men  most  undoubtedly  are,  and  as  their  wives,  families, 
and  relations  are — there  can  be  no  reason  why  men  of 
letters  should  not  have  the  chance,  as  well  as  men  of  the 
robe  or  the  sword ;  or  why,  if  honor  and  money  are  good 
for  one  profession,  they  should  not  be  good  for  another. 
Ko  man  in  other  callings  thinks  himself  degraded  by  receiv- 
ing a  reward  from  his  government ;  nor  surely  need  the 
literary  man  be  more  squeamish  about  pensions,  and  rib- 
bons, and  titles,  than  the  ambassador,  or  general,  or  judge. 
Every  European  state  but  ours  rewards  its  men  of  lettters ; 
the  American  government  gives  them  their  full  share  of 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE.  429 

its  small  patronage  ;  and  if  Americans^  why  not  English- 
men ?  If  Pitt  Crawle}'  is  disappointed  at  not  getting  a 
ribbon  on  retiring  from  his  diplomatic  post  at  Pumper- 
nickel ;  if  General  O'Dowd  is  pleased  to  be  called  Sir  Hec- 
tor O'Dowd,  K.C.B.,  and  his  wife  at  being  denominated  my 
Lady  O'Dowd  —  are  literary  men  to  be  the  only  persons 
exempt  from  vanity,  and  is  it  to  be  a  sin  in  them  to  covet 
honor  ? 

And  now  with  regard  to  the  charge  against  myself  of 
fostering  baneful  prejudices  against  our  calling  —  to  which 
I  no  more  plead  guilty  than  I  should  think  Fielding  would 
have  done,  if  he  had  been  accused  of  a  design  to  bring  the 
Church  into  contempt  by  describing  Parson  Trulliber  — 
permit  me  to  say,  that  before  you  deliver  sentence  it  would 
be  as  well  to  have  waited  to  hear  the  whole  of  the  argu- 
ment. Who  knows  what  is  coming  in  the  future  numbers 
of  the  work  which  has  incurred  3-our  displeasure  and  the 
Examiner's,  and  whether  you,  in  accusing  me  of  prejudice, 
and  the  Examiner  (alas!)  of  swindling  and  flattering  the 
public,  have  not  been  premature  ?  Time  and  the  hour  may 
solve  this  mystery,  for  which  the  candid  reader  is  referred 
to  "  our  next." 

That  I  have  a  prejudice  against  running  into  debt,  and 
drunkenness,  and  disorderly  life,  and  against  quackery  and 
falsehood  in  my  profession,  I  own ;  and  that  I  like  to  have 
a  laugh  at  those  pretenders  in  it  who  write  confidential 
news  about  fashion  and  politics  for  provincial  gobemouches  ; 
but  I  am  not  aware  of  feeling  any  malice  in  describing  this 
weakness,  or  of  doing  anything  wrong  in  exposing  the 
former  vices.  Have  they  never  existed  amongst  literary 
men  ?  Have  their  talents  never  been  urged  as  a  plea  for 
improvidence,  and  their  very  faults  adduced  as  a  conse- 
quence of  their  genius  ?  The  only  moral  that  I,  as  a 
writer,  wished  to  hint  in  the  descriptions  against  which  you 
protest  was.  that  it  was  the  duty  of  a  literary  man,  as  well 
as  any  other,  to  practise  regularity  and  sobriety,  to  love 
his  family,  and  to  pay  his  tradesmen.  Xor  is  the  picture  I 
have  drawn  ''a  caricature  which  I  condescend  to,"  any 
more  than  it  is  a  wilful  and  insidious  design  on  my  part  to 
flatter  '•  the  non-literary  class."  If  it  be  a  caricature,  it  is 
the  result  of  a  natural  perversity  of  vision,  not  of  an  artful 
desire  to  mislead ;  but  my  attempt  was  to  tell  the  truth, 
and  I  meant  to  tell  it  not  unkindly.  I  have  seen  the  book- 
seller whom  Bludyer  robbed  of  his  books ;  I  have  carried 


430  ODDS  AND   ENDS. 

money,  and  from  a  noble  brother  man-of-letters,  to  some  one 
not  unlike  Shan  don  in  prison,  and  have  watched  the  beau- 
tiful devotion  of  his  wife  in  that  place.  Why  are  these 
things  not  to  be  described,  if  they  illustrate,  as  they  appear 
to  me  to  do,  that  strange  and  awful  struggle  of  good  and 
wrong  which  takes  place  in  our  hearts  and  in  the  world  ?  It 
may  be  that  I  work  out  my  moral  ill,  or  it  may  possibly  be 
that  the  critic  of  the  Examiner  fails  in  apprehension.  My 
effort  as  an  artist  came  perfectly  within  his  province  as  a 
censor;  but  when  Mr.  Examiner  says  of  a  gentleman  that 
he  is  "stooping  to  flatter  the  public  prejudice,"  which  pub- 
lic prejudice  does  not  exist,  I  submit  that  he  makes  a 
charge  which  is  as  absurd  as  it  is  unjust,  and  am  thankful 
that  it  repels  itself. 

And  instead  of  accusing  the  public  of  persecuting  and 
disparaging  us  as  a  class,  it  seems  to  me  that  men  of  letters 
had  best  silently  assume  that  they  are  as  good  as  any  other 
gentlemen ;  nor  raise  piteous  controversies  upon  a  question 
which  all  people  of  sense  must  take  as  settled.  If  I  sit  at 
your  table,  I  suppose  that  I  am  my  neighbor's  equal,  and 
that  he  is  mine.  If  I  begin  straightway  with  a  protest  of 
"  Sir,  I  am  a  literary  man,  but  I  would  have  you  to  know 
that  I  am  as  good  as  you,"  which  of  us  is  it  that  questions 
the  dignity  of  the  literary  profession  —  my  neighbor  who 
would  like  to  eat  his  soup  in  quiet,  or  the  man  of  letters 
who  commences  the  argument  ?  And  I  hope  that  a  comic 
writer,  because  he  describes  one  author  as  improvident, 
and  another  as  a  parasite,  may  not  only  be  guiltless  of  a 
desire  to  vilify  his  profession,  but  may  really  have  its 
honor  at  heart.  If  there  are  no  spendthrifts  or  parasites 
among  us,  the  satire  becomes  unjust ;  but  if  such  exist,  or 
have  existed,  they  are  as  good  subjects  for  comedy  as  men 
of  other  callings.  I  never  heard  that  the  Bar  felt  itself 
aggrieved  because  Punch  chose  to  describe  Mr.  Dump's 
notorious  state  of  insolvency,  or  that  the  picture  of  Stig- 
gins,  in  "Pickwick,"  was  intended  as  an  insult  to  all  Dis- 
senters ;  or  that  all  the  attorneys  in  the  empire  were  indig- 
nant at  the  famous  history  of  the  firm  of  "Quirk,  Gammon, 
and  Snap."  Are  we  to  be  passed  over  because  we  are 
faultless,  or  because  we  cannot  afford  to  be  laughed  at  ? 
And  if  every  character  in  a  story  is  to  represent  a  class, 
not  an  individual  —  if  every  bad  figure  is  to  have  its  obliged 
contrast  a  good  one,  and  a  balance  of  vice  and  virtue  is  to 
be  struck  —  novels,  I  think,  would  become  impossible,  as 


THE  DIGNITY  OF  LITERATURE.  431 

they  would  be  intolerably  stupid  and  unnatural ;  and  there 
would  be  a  lamentable  end  of  writers  and  readers  of  such 
compositions.  Believe  me,  sir,  to  be  your  very  faithful 
servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


^32  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 


CAPEES   AND  ANCHOVIES. 

[To  the  Edit07'  of  the  Morning  Chronicle.'] 

"  Sir,  —  I  hope  no  Irisli  gentleman  will  be  insulted  at  my 
recalling  a  story,  venerable  for  its  antiquity,  of  the  Irish 
officer  who,  having  stated  that  he  had  seen  anchovies  grow- 
ing in  profusion  upon  the  rocks  of  Malta,  called  out  and 
shot  an  Englishman  who  doubted  his  statement.  As  the 
unhappy  Saxon  fell  writhing  from  his  wound,  the  Irish- 
man's second  remarked,  '  Look,  Sir  Lucius  !  you  have  made 
him  cut  capers  ! '  '■  Bedad,  it's  capers  I  mane  ! '  the  gallant 
and  impetuous  O'Trigger  remarked,  and  instantly  apolo- 
gized in  the  handsomest  terms  to  his  English  antagonist 
for  his  error.  It  was  capers  he  had  seen,  and  not  ancho- 
vies, growing  on  the  rocks ;  the  blunder  was  his,  but  the 
bullet  was  in  the  Englishman's  leg,  who  went  away  grum- 
bling because  the  other  had  not  thought  of  the  truth 
before. 

"  Sir,  three  Irish  newspapers,  and  an  Irish  Member  of 
Parliament  in  his  place  in  the  Kotunda,  have  delivered 
their  fire  into  me  through  a  similar  error.  Every  post 
brings  me  letters  containing  extracts  from  Irish  papers, 
sent  to  me  by  friends,  and  one  of  them,  who  is  most  active 
in  my  behalf,  informs  me  that  there  is  a  body  of  Irish  gen- 
tlemen who  are  bent  upon  cudgelling  me,  and  who  are  very 
likely  waiting  at  my  door  whilst  I  write  from  the  club, 
where,  of  course,  I  have  denied  myself.  It  is  these,  while 
it  is  yet  time,  whom  I  wish  to  prevent ;  and  as  many  of 
them  will  probably  read  your  journal  to-morrow  morning, 
you  may  possibly  be  the  means  of  saving  my  bones,  valu- 
able to  me  and  my  family,  and  which  I  prefer  before  any 
apology  for  breaking  them.  The  blunder  of  which  I  am 
the  victim  is  at  once  absurd  and  painful,  and  I  am  sorry 
to  be  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  the  press  for  explanation. 

"  Ten  years  ago  I  wrote  a  satirical  story  in  Fraser^s  Mag- 
azine, called  '  Catherine,'  and  founded  upon  the  history  of 
the  murderess,  Catherine  Hayes.     The  tale  was  intended 


CAPERS  AND  ANCHOVIES.  433 

to  ridicule  a  taste  then  prevalent  for  making  novel-heroes 
of  Xewgate  malefactors.  Every  single  personage  in  my 
story  was  a  rascal,  and  hanged,  or  pat  to  a  violent  death ; 
and  the  history  became  so  atrocious  that  it  created  a  gen- 
eral dissatisfaction,  and  was  pronounced  to  be  horribly 
immoral.  While  the  public  went  on  reading  the  works 
which  I  had  intended  to  ridicule,  '  Catherine '  was,  in  a 
word,  a  failure,  and  is  dead,  with  all  its  heroes. 

"In  the  last  number  of  the  story  of  Pendennis  (which 
was  written  when  I  was  absent  from  this  country,  a.nd  not 
in  the  least  thinking  about  the  opera  here),  I  wrote  a  sen- 
tence to  the  purport  that  the  greatest  criminals  and  mur- 
derers —  Bluebeard,  George  Barnwell,  Catherine  Hayes  — 
had  some  spark  of  human  feeling,  and  found  some  friends, 
—  meaning  thereby  to  encourage  minor  criminals  not  to 
despair.  And  my  only  thought  in  producing  the  last  of 
these  instances  was  about  Mrs.  Hayes,  who  died  at  T3'burn, 
and  subsequently  perished  in  my  novel,  and  not  in  the 
least  about  an  amiable  and  beautiful  young  lady  now  acting 
at  Her  Majesty's  Theatre.  I  quite  forgot  her  existence. 
I  was  pointing  my  moral,  such  as  it  was,  with  quite  a  differ- 
ent person,  and  never  for  a  single  instant,  I  declare  on  my 
word  of  honor,  remembering  the  young  lady,  nor  knowing 
anything  regarding  her  engagement  at  the  Haymarket. 

"From  this  unlucky  sentence  in  Pendennis  my  tribu- 
lations begin,  and  ni}'  capers  are  held  up  as  the  most  wicked 
anchovies  to  indignant  Irelaiul.  Vindex  writes  to  the 
Freeman's  Journal,  saying  that  I  have  an  intention  to  in- 
sult the  Irish  nation  in  the  person  of  an  accomplished  and 
innocent  young  lady,  whom  I  class  with  murderers  and 
cut-throats,  whereby  I  damn  myself  to  everlasting  infani}'. 
The  Freeman's  Journal,  in  language  intelligible  always, 
if  not  remarkable  for  grammatical  or  other  propriety,  says 
I  am  'the  Big  Blubberman,  the  hugest  humbug  ever  thrust 
on  the  public'  that  I  am  guilty  of  unmanly  grossness  and 
cowardly  assault,  and  that  I  wrote  to  ruin  Miss  Hayes,  but 
did  not  succeed.  The  Freeman  adds,  in  a  concluding  para- 
graph, that  there  may  have  been  some  person  happening  to 
bear  a  name  coincident  with  that  of  the  Freeman's  accom- 
plished countrywoman ;  and  that  if  I  have  this  very  simple 
and  complete  defence  to  make,  I  shall  hasten  to  offer  it. 
I  don't  take  in  the  Freemaivs  Journal,  —  I  am  not  likely  to 
be  very  anxious  about  reading  it,  —  but  the  Freeman  never 
gives  me  any  notice  of  the  attack  which  I  am  to  hasten  to 


434  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

defend,  and,  calling  me  coward,  and  ruffian,  leaves  me. 
It  is  the  anchovy-caper  question  settled  in  the  approved 
manner. 

"The  Mall,  assuming  that  I  intended  insult  and  injury, 
remarks  on  the  incriminated  sentence  thus  :  '  Its  brutality 
is  so  far  neutralized  by  its  absurdity  as  to  render  it  utterly 
harmless.'     No.  2. 

"No.  3.  The  Packet,  speaking  on  the  judgment  of  both 
of  its  contemporaries,  says  admirably,  — 

" '  This  prompt  and  chivalrous  espousal  of  a  lady's  cause 
is  just  what  we  should  have  expected  from  our  brethren  of 
the  Irish  press,  and  will  be  no  doubt  a  source  of  much  grat- 
ification to  Miss  Hayes.  But  ...  we  only  think  it  fair 
to  state  that  he  has  not  been  guilty  of  the  '  incredibly 
gross  act'  of  associating  our  pure  and  amiable  Catherine 
with  the  murderers  and  tyrants  about  whom  he  has  written 
so  nonsensically.' 

"  And  then  follows  the  revelation  of  the  mystery  about 
the  real  Catherine,  the  writer  remarking  that  I  am  neither 
a  fool  nor  a  madman,  and  that  I  would  not  outrage  Miss 
Hayes,  lest  some  Saxon  should  kick  me. 

"  Sir,  if  some  pictures,  of  the  Irish,  drawn  by  foreign 
hands,  are  caricatures,  what  are  they  compared  to  pictures 
of  the  Irish  drawn  by  themselves  ?  Would  any  man  — 
could  any  man  out  of  Ireland  —  invent  such  an  argument 
as  the  last  ?     It  stands  thus  :  — 

"  1.  I  have  not  intended  to  injure,  nor  have  1  in  the 
least  injured.  Miss  Hayes. 

"2.  The  people  who  have  abused  me  for  injuring  her 
have  acted  with  chivalrous  promptitude,  and,  no  doubt, 
have  greatly  gratified  Miss  Hayes.  Poor  young  lady  !  she 
is  to  be  gratified  by  seeing  a  man  belabored  who  never 
thought  of  her  or  meant  her  a  wrong. 

"3.  But  if  I  had  injured  Miss  Hayes,  many  Saxon  boot- 
toes  would  have  taught  me  decency;  that  is,  capers  not 
being  anchovies,  gentlemen  would  have  acted  with  much 
chivalry  in  shooting  me  ;  and  if  capers  had  been  anchovies, 
I  should  richly  have  merited  a  kicking.  Comfortable 
dilemma ! 

"  I  should  not  have  noticed  this  charge  except  in  Ireland, 
believing  that  it  must  be  painful  to  the  young  lady  whose 
name  has  been  most  innocently  and  unfortunately  brought 
forward ;  but  I  see  the  case  has  already  passed  the  Chan- 
nel,  and  that  tiiere  is  no  help  for  all  parties  but  publicity. 


CAPERS  AND  ANCHOVIES.  435 

I  declare  upon  my  honor,  then,  to  Miss  Hayes,  that  I  am 
grieved  to  have  been  the  means  of  annoying  her,  if  I  have 
done  so ;  and  I  need  not  tell  any  gentleman  —  what  gentle- 
man would  question  m&?  —  that  I  never  for  a  moment 
could  mean  an  insult  to  innocence,  and  genius,  and  beauty. 
"  I  am,  sir,  your  very  faithful  servant, 

"W.  M.  Thackeray." 
**Garrick  Club,  April  11,  1850." 


436  ODDS  AND  ENDS, 


MR.    THACKERAY   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES. 

[7'o  the  Editor  of  Fraser^s  Magazine,  Jamiary,  1853.] 

You  may  remember,  my  dear  sir,  how  I  prognosticated  a 
warm  reception  for  your  Mr.  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  in 
New  York  —  how  I  advised  that  he  should  come  by  a  Col- 
lins rather  than  a  Cunard  liner  —  how  that  he  must  land  at 
New  York  rather  than  at  Boston  —  or,  at  any  rate,  that  he 
mustn't  dare  to  begin  lecturing  at  the  latter  city,  and  bring 
"  cold  joints  "  to  the  former  one.  In  the  last  particular  he 
has  happily  followed  my  suggestion,  and  has  opened  with  a 
warm  success  in  the  chief  city.  The  journals  have  been  full- 
of  him.  On  the  19th  of  November,  he  commenced  his  lec- 
tures before  the  Mercantile  Library  Association  (young 
ardent  commercialists),  in  the  spacious  New  York  church 
belonging  to  the  flock  presided  over  by  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Chapin  ;  a  strong  row  of  ladies  —  the  cream  of  the  capital 
—  and  an  "unusual  number  of  the  distinguished  literary 
and  professional  celebrities."  The  critic  of  the  Neiu  York 
Tribune  is  forward  to  commend  his  style  of  delivery  as 
"that  of  a  well-bred  gentleman,  reading  with  marked  force 
and  propriety  to  a  large  circle  in  the  drawing-room."  So 
far,  excellent.  This  witness  is  a  gentleman  of  the  press, 
and  is  a  credit  to  his  order.  But  there  are  some  others  who 
have  whetted  the  ordinary  American  appetite  of  inquisitive- 
ness  with  astounding  intelligence.  Sydney  Smith  excused 
the  national  curiosity  as  not  only  venial,  but  laudable.  In 
1824,  he  wrote  —  "  Where  men  live  in  woods  and  forests,  as 
is  the  case,  of  course,  in  remote  American  settlements,  it  is 
the  duty  of  every  man  to  gratify  the  inhabitants  by  telling 
them  his  name,  place,  age,  office,  virtues,  crimes,  children, 
fortune,  and  remarks."  It  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise, 
therefore,  that  this  percontatorial  foible  has  grown  with 
the  national  growth. 

You  cannot  help  perceiving  that  the  lion  in  America  is 
public  projperty  and  confiscate  to  the  common  weal.     They 


THACKERAY  IN  THE    UNITED   STATES.       437 

trim  the  creature's  nails,  they  cut  the  hair  off  his  mane  and 
tail  (which  is  distributed  or  sold  to  his  admirers),  and  they 
draw  his  teeth,  which  are  frequently  preserved  with  much 
the  same  care  as  you  keep  any  memorable  grinder  whose 
presence  has  been  agony  and  departure  delight. 

Bear-leading  is  not  so  much  in  vogue  across  the  Atlantic 
as  at  your  home  in  England ;  but  the  lion-leading  is  infin- 
itely more  in  fashion. 

Some  learned  man  is  appointed  Androcles  to  the  new 
arrival.  One  of  tlie  familiars  of  the  press  is  despatched  to 
attend  the  latest  attraction,  and  by  this  reflecting  medium 
the  lion  is  perpetually  presented  to  the  popular  gaze.  The 
guest's  most  secret  self  is  exposed  by  his  host.  Every  ac- 
tion —  every  word  —  every  gesture  is  preserved,  and  pro- 
claimed —  a  sigh  —  a  nod  —  a  groan  —  a  sneeze  —  a  cough 
—  or  a  wink  —  is  each  w^ritten  down  by  this  recording 
minister,  who  blots  out  nothing.  No  tahila  rasa  with  him. 
Tlie  portrait  is  limned  with  the  fidelity  of  Parrhasius,  and 
filled  up  with  the  minuteness  of  the  Daguerre  process  it- 
self. No  bloodhound  or  Bow  Street  ofticer  can  be  keener 
or  more  exact  on  the  trail  than  this  irresistible  and  un- 
avoidable spy.  'Tis  in  Austria  they  calotype  criminals  :  in 
the  far  West  the  public  press  prints  the  identity  of  each 
notorious  visitor  to  its  shores. 

In  turn,  IVIr.  Dickens,  Lord  Carlisle,  Jenny  Lind,  and 
now  Mr.  Thackeray,  have  been  lionized  in  America. 

"  They  go  to  see,  themselves  a  greater  sight  than  all." 

In  providing  for  a  gaping  audience,  narrators  are  dis- 
posed rather  to  go  beyond  reality.  Your  famous  Oriental 
lecturer  at  the  British  and  Foreign  Institute  had  a  wallet 
of  personal  experience,  from  which  Lemuel  Gulliver  might 
have  helped  himself.  With  such  hyperbole  one  or  two  of 
"our  own  correspondents  "  of  American  journals  tell  Mr. 
Thackeray  more  about  his  habits  than  he  himself  was  cog- 
nizant of.  Specially  I  have  selected  from  the  Sachem  and 
Broadway  Delineator  (the  latter-named  newspaper  has 
quite  a  fabulous  circulation)  a  pleasant  lijstory  of  certain 
of  the  peculiarities  of  your  great  humorist  at  which  I  be- 
lieve he  himself  must  smile. 

Mr.  Thackeray's  person,  height,  breadth,  hair,  corn- 
plexion,  voice,  gesticulation,  and  manner  are^  with  a  fair 
enough  accuracy,  described. 


438  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

Anon,  these  recorders,  upon  which  we  play,  softly 
whisper,  — 

"  One  of  his  most  singular  habits  is  that  of  making  rough  sketches 
for  caricatures  on  liis  finger-nails.  The  phosphoretic  ink  he  originally- 
used  has  destroyed  the  entire  nails,  so  his  fingers  are  now  tipped  with 
liorn,  on  which  he  draws  his  portraits.  The  Duke  of  Marlboro' 
(under  Queen  Anne),  General  O'Gahagan  (under  Lord  Lake),  to- 
gether with  Ibrahim  Pasha  (at  the  Turkish  Ambassador's),  were  thus 
taken.  The  celebrated  engravings  in  the  '  Paris  Sketch  Book,'  '  Es- 
mond,' etc.,  were  made  from  these  sketches.  He  has  an  insatiable 
passion  for  snuff,  which  he  carries  loose  in  his  pockets.  At  a  ball  at 
the  Duke  of  Northumberland's,  he  set  a  whole  party  sneezing,  in  a 
polka,  in  so  convulsive  a  manner  that  they  were  obliged  to  break  up 
in  confusion.  His  pockets  are  all  lined  with  tea-lead,  after  a  fashion 
introduced  by  the  late  Lord  Dartmouth. 

"  Mr.  T.  has  a  passion  for  daguerreotypes,  of  which  he  has  a  col- 
lection of  many  thousands.  Most  of  these  he  took  unobserved  from 
the  outer  gallery  of  Saint  Paul's.  He  generally  carries  liis  apparatus 
in  one  of  Sangster's  alpaca  umbrellas,  surmounted  with  the  head  of 
Doctor  Syntax.  (This  umbrella,  we  believe,  remained  with  the  pub- 
lishers of  Frasefs  Magazine,  after  the  article  on  the  London  Exhibi- 
tions, in  which  it  was  alluded  to.)  He  has  been  known  to  collar  a 
beggar  boy  in  the  streets,  drag  him  off  to  the  nearest  pastrycook's,  and 
exercise  his  photographic  art  without  ceremony.  In  London  he  had  a 
tame  laughing  hyena  presented  to  him,  on  the  breaking  up  of  the 
Tower  menagerie,  which  followed  him  like  a  dog,  and  was  much  at- 
tached to  his  master,  though  totally  blind  from  confinement,  deaf,  and 
going  on  three  legs  and  a  wooden  one.  He  was  always  surrounded  by 
pets  and  domestic  animals  in  his  house ;  two  owls  live  in  the  ivy-tod 
of  the  summer-house  in  the  garden.  His  back  sitting-room  has  an 
aviary.  Monkeys,  dogs,  parrots,  cats,  and  guinea-pigs  swarm  in  the 
chambers.  The  correspondent  of  the  Buffalo  Revolver,  who  stayed 
three  weeks  with  Mr.  Thackeray  during  the  Great  Exhibition,  gave  us 
these  particulars. 

"His  papers  on  the  'Greater  Petty  Chaps '  or  '  Garden  Warbler 
(Sylva  hortensis),'  '  the  Fauvette,'  created  an  immense  sensation  when 
Madame  Otto  Goldschmidt  was  last  in  London.  The  study  is  at  the 
end  of  the  garden.  The  outside  is  richly  covered  with  honeysuckle, 
jasmine,  and  Virginia  creepers.  Here  Mr.  T.  sits  in  perfect 
solitude,  '  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy.'  Being  an  early 
riser,  he  is  generally  to  be  found  there  in  the  morning,  whence  he  can 
watch  tlie  birds.  His  daily  costume  is  a  hanging  chlamys,  or  frock- 
coat,  which  he  closely  buttons,  to  avoid  the  encumbrance  of  a  waist- 
coat. Hence  the  multiplicity  of  his  coat-pockets,  whose  extreme 
utility  to  him  during  his  lecture  has  been  remarked  elsewhere.  He 
wears  no  braces,  but  liis  nether  garments  are  sustained  by  a  suspensory 
belt  or  bandage  of  hemp  round  his  loins.  Socks  or  stockings  he 
despises  as  effeminate,  and  has  been  heard  to  sigh  for  the  days  of  the 
Solea  or  narSuXiuv.  A  hair-shirt  close  to  the  skin  as  Dejanira's  robe, 
with  a  changeable  linen  front  of  the  finest  texture;  a  mortification,  or 
penance,  according  to  his  cynical  contempt  and  yet  respect  for  human 
vanity,  is  a  part  of  his  ordinary  apparel.  A  gibus  liat  and  a  pair  of 
bluchers  complete  his  attire.  By  a  contrivance  borrowed  from  the  dis- 
guises of  pantomimists,  he  undresses  himself  in  the  twinkling  of  abed- 


THACKERAY   IX    THE    UNITED   STA'I'ES.       439 

post;  and  can  slip  into  bed  while  an  ordinary  man  is  pulling  off  liis 
coat.  He  is  awaked  from  his  sleep  (lying  always  on  his  back  in  a  sort 
of  mesmeric  trance)  by  a  black  servant  (Joe's  domestic  in  'Vanity 
Fair'),  who  enters  the  bed-room  at  four  o'clock  precisely  every  morn- 
ing, winter  or  summer,  tears  down  the  bed-clothes,  and  literally  satu- 
rates his  master  with  a  can  of  cold  water  drawn  from  the  nearest 
spring.  As  he  has  no  whiskers,  he  never  needs  to  shave,  and  he  is 
nsed  to  clean  his  teeth  with  the  feather  end  of  the  quill  with  which  he 
writes  in  bed.  ( In  this  free  and  enlightened  country  he  will  find  he 
need  not  waste  his  time  in  cleaning  his  teeth  at  all.)  With  all  his  ex- 
cessive simplicity,  he  is  as  elaborate  in  the  arrangement  of  his  dress  as 
Count  d'Orsay  or  Mr.  Brummel.  His  toilet  occupies  him  after  matin 
studies  till  mid-day.  He  then  sits  down  to  a  substantial  '  bever,'  or 
luncheon  of  *  tea,  coffee,  bread,  butter,  salmon-shad,  liver,  black  pud- 
dings, and  sausages.'  At  the  top  of  this  he  deposits  two  glasses  of 
ratafia  and  three-fourths  of  a  glass  of  rum-shrub.  Immetliately  after 
the  meal  his  liorses  are  brought  to  the  door;  he  starts  at  once  in  a  mad 
gallop,  or  coolly  commences  a  gentle  amble,  according  to  the  character 
of  the  work,  fast  or  slow,  that  he  is  engaged  upon. 

"  He  pays  no  visits  iuv\,  being  a  solitudinarian,  frequents  not  even 
a  single  club  in  London.  He  dresses  punctiliously  for  dinner  every 
day.  He  is  but  a  sorry  eater,  and  avoids  all  vegetable  diet,  as  he  thinks 
it  dims  the  animal  spirits.  Only  when  engaged  on  pathetic  subjects 
does  he  make  a  hearty  meal;  for  the  body  macerated  by  long  fasting, 
he  says,  cannot  unaided  contribute  the  tears  he  would  shed  over  what 
he  writes.  Wine  he  abhors,  as  a  true  Mussulman.  Mr.  T.'s  favorite 
driuk  is  gin  and  toast  and  water,  or  cider  and  bitters,  cream  and 
cayenne. 

"In  religion  a  Parsee  (he  was  born  in  Calcutta),  in  morals  a  Stagi- 
rite,  in  philosophy  an  Epicurean:  though  nothing  in  his  conversation 
or  manners  would  lead  one  to  surmise  that  he  belonged  to  either  or 
any  of  these  sects.  In  politics  an  unflinching  Tory;  fond  of  the 
Throne,  admiring  the  Court,  attached  to  the  peerage,  proud  of  the 
army  and  navy;  a  thick  and  thin  upholder  of  Church  and  State,  he  is 
for  tithes  and  taxes  as  in  Pitt's  time.  He  wears  hair  powdered  to  this 
day,  from  his  entire  reliance  on  the  wisdom  of  his  forefathers.  Be- 
sides his  novels,  he  is  the  author  of  the  '  Vestiges  of  Creation,'  the 
'  Errors  of  Nuniismatics,'  '  Junius's  Letters,'  and  '  Ivanhoe.'  The  se- 
quel to  this  last  he  published  three  or  four  years  ago.  He  wrote  all 
Louis  Napoleon's  woiks,  and  Madame  H.'s  exquisite  love  letters:  and 
whilst  secretary  to  that  prince  in  confinement  at  Ham,  assisted  him  in 
his  escape,  by  knocking  down  the  sentry  with  a  ruler  with  which  he 
had  been  ruling  accoinits.  Mr.  T.  is  very  fond  of  boxing,  and  used 
to  have  an  occasional  set-to  with  Ben  Caunt,  the  Tipton  Slasher,  and 
yoinig  Sambo.  He  fences  admirably,  and  ran  the  celebrated  Bert  rand 
through  the  lungs  twice,  at  an  assaut  d'armes  in  Paris.  He  is  an 
exquisite  dancer,  he  founded  Laurent's  Casino  (was  a  pupil  of  Old 
GiimaLli.  surnamed  Iron  Legs),  and  played  Harlequin  in  'Mother 
Goose'  pantomime  once,  when  Ella,  the  regular  performer,  was  taken 
ill  and  unable  to  appear. 

'*  He  has  no  voice,  ear.  or  fancy  even,  for  music,  and  the  only  in- 
struments he  cares  to  listen  to  are  the  Jew's-harp,  the  bagpipes,  and 
the  '  Indian  driuu.' 

''He  is  disputatious  and  loquacious  to  a  degree  in  company;  and  at 


440  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

a  dinner  at  the  Bishop  of  Oxford's,  the  discussion  with  Mr.  Maeaulay 
respecting  the  deatli  of  Mausohis,  the  husband  of  Zenobia,  occupied 
the  disputants  for  thirteen  hours  ere  either  rose  to  retire.  Mr. 
Maeaulay  was  found  exhausted  under  the  table.  He  has  no  acquaint- 
ance witli  modern  languages,  and  his  French,  which  he  freely  uses 
throughout  his  writings,  is  furnished  by  the  Parisian  governess  in  the 
]>aron  de  B.'s  establishment.  In  the  classics  he  is  superior  to  either 
Professor  Sedgwick  or  Blackie  (vide  his  'Colloquies  on  Strabo,'  and 
the  '  Curtian  Earthquake').  He  was  twice  senior  opt.  at  Magdalen 
College,  and  three  times  running  carried  off  Barnes's  prize  for  Greek 
Theses  and  Cantate,"  «.  t.  k. 


Happily  these  delicate  attentions  have  not  ruffled  Mr. 
Thackeray's  good  temper  and  genial  appreciation  of  the 
high  position  occupied  by  literary  men  in  the  United  States. 
Let  me  avow  that  this  position  not  only  reflects  credit  on 
the  country  which  awards  it,  but  helps  to  shed  its  lustre  on 
the  men  of  letters  who  become  the  guests  of  its  hospitality. 
Mr.  Thackeray's  last  lecture  of  the  series,  on  the  7th  ult., 
gracefully  conceded  this  in  the  following  tribute  :  — 

*'  In  England  it  was  my  custom,  after  the  delivery  of  these  lectures, 
to  point  such  a  moral  as  seemed  to  befit  the  country  I  lived  in,  and  to 
protest  against  an  outcry,  which  some  brother  authors  of  mine  most 
imprudently  and  unjustly  raise,  when  they  say  that  our  profession  is 
neglected  and  its  professors  held  in  light  esteem.  Speaking  in  this 
country,  I  would  say  that  such  a  complaint  could  not  only  not  be 
advanced,  but  could  not  be  even  understood  here,  where  your  men  of 
letters  take  their  manly  share  in  public  life;  whence  Everett  goes  as 
Minister  to  Washington,  and  Irving  and  Bancroft  to  represent  the 
republic  in  the  old  country.  And  if  to  English  authors  the  English 
public  is,  as  I  believe,  kind  and  just  in  the  main,  can  any  of  us  say, 
will  any  who  visit  your  country  not  proudly  and  gratefully  own,  with 
what  a  cordial  and  generous  greeting  you  receive  us  ?  I  look  round 
on  this  great  company.  I  think  of  my  gallant  young  patrons  of  the 
Mercantile  Library  Association,  as  whose  servant  I  appear  before  you, 
and  of  the  kind  hands  stretched  out  to  welcome  me  by  men  famous 
in  letters,  and  honored  in  our  country  as  in  their  own,  and  I  thank 
you  and  them  for  a  most  kindly  greeting  and  a  most  generous  hospi- 
tality. At  home,  and  amongst  his  own  people,  it  scarce  becomes  an 
English  writer  to  speak  of  himself:  his  public  estimation  must  depend 
upon  his  works;  his  private  esteem  on  his  character  and  his  life.  But 
here,  among  friends  newly  found,  I  ask  leave  to  say  that  I  am  thank- 
ful; and  I  think  with  a  grateful  heart  of  those  I  leave  behind  me  at 
home,  who  will  be  proud  of  the  welcome  you  hold  out  to  me,  and  will 
benefit,  please  God,  wdien  my  days  of  work  are  over,  by  the  kindness 
which  you  show  to  their  father." 

John  Small. 


A   LEAF  OUT  OF  A    SKETCH-BOOK.  441 


A   LEAF   OUT   OF   A   SKETCH-BOOK. 

[The    Victoria  Regia,  edited  by  Adelaide  A.  Procter,  1861.] 

Ip^  you  will  take  a  leaf  out  of  my  sketch-book,  you  are 
welcome.  It  is  only  a  scrap,  but  I  have  nothing  better  to 
give.  When  the  fishing-boats  come  in  at  a  watering-place, 
haven't  you  remarked  that  though  these  may  be  choking 
with  great  fish,  you  can  only  get  a  few  herrings  or  a  whiting 
or  two  ?  The  big  fish  are  all  bespoken  in  London.  As  it 
is  with  fish,  so  it  is  with  authors,  let  us  hope.  Some  Mr. 
Charles,  of  Paternoster  Row,  some  Mr.  Grove,  of  Cornhill 
(or  elsewhere),  has  agreed  for  your  turbots  and  your  salmon, 
your  soles  and  your  lobsters.  Take  one  of  my  "little  fish,  — 
any  leaf  you  like  out  of  the  little  book,  —  a  battered  little 
book :  through  what  a  number  of  countries,  to  be  sure,  it 
has  travelled  in  this  pocket ! 

The  sketches  are  but  i)oor  performances,  say  you.  I 
don't  say  no ;  and  value  tliem  no  higher  than  you  do,  except 
as  recollections  of  the  past.  The  little  scrawl  helps  to  fetch 
back  the  scene  which  was  present  and  alive  once,  and  is 
gone  away  now,  and  dead.  The  past  resurges  out  of  its 
grave  ;  comes  up  —  a  sad-eyed  ghost  sometimes  —  and  gives 
a  wan  ghost-like  look  of  recognition,  ere  it  pops  down  under 
cover  again.  Here's  the  Thames,  an  old  graveyard,  an  old 
church,  and  some  old  chestnuts  standing  behind  it.  Ah ! 
it  was  a  very  cheery  place,  that  old  graveyard  ;  but  what  a 
dismal,  cut-throat,  cracked-windowed,  disreputable  residence 
w^as  that  "charming  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames," 
which  led  me  on  the  day's  excursion  !  Why,  the  ''  capacious 
stabling  "  was  a  ruinous  wooden  old  barn,  the  garden  was  a 
mangy  potato  patch  overlooked  by  the  territories  of  a 
neighboring  washerwoman.  The  housekeeper  owned  that 
the  water  was  constantly  in  the  cellars  and  ground-floor 
rooms  in  winter.  Had  I  gone  to  live  in  that  place,  I  should 
have  perished  like  a  flower  in  spring,  or  a  young  gazelle, 
let  us  sa}",  with  dark  blue  eyes.  I  had  spent  a  day  and 
hired  a  fly  at  ever  so  much  charges,  misled  by  an  unvera- 
cious  auctioneer,  against  whom  I  have  no  remedy  for  pub- 


442  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

lishing  that  abominable  work  of  fiction  which  led  me  to 
make  a  journey,  lose  a  day,  and  waste  a  guinea. 

What  is  the  next  picture  in  the  little  show-book  ?  It  is 
a  scene  at  Calais.  The  sketch  is  entitled  "The  Little 
Merchant."  He  was  a  dear  pretty  little  rosy-cheeked  mer- 
chant, four  years  old  maybe.  He  had  a  little  scarlet  kepi  ; 
a  little  military  frock-coat;  a  little  i^air  of  military  red 
trousers  and  boots,  which  did  not  near  touch  the  ground 
from  the  chair  on  which  he  sat  sentinel.  He  was  a  little 
crockery  merchant,  and  the  wares  over  which  he  was  keep- 
ing guard,  sitting  surrounded  by  walls  and  piles  of  them 

as  in  a  little  castle,  were well,  I  never  saw  such  a  queer 

little  crockery  merchant. 

Him  and  his  little  chair,  boots,  kepi,  crockery,  you  can 
see  in  the  sketch,  —  but  I  see,  nay,  hear,  a  great  deal  more. 
At  the  end  of  the  quiet  little  old,  old  street,  which  has 
retired  out  of  the  world's  business  as  it  were,  being  quite 
too  aged,  feeble,  and  musty  to  take  any  part  in  life,  —  there 
is  a  great  braying  and  bellowing  of  serpents  and  bassoons,  a 
nasal  chant  of  clerical  voices,  and  a  pattering  of  multitu- 
dinous feet.  We  run  towards  the  market.  It  is  a  Church 
fete  day.  Banners  painted  and  gilt  with  images  of  saints 
are  flaming  in  the  sun.  Candles  are  held  aloft,  feebly 
twinkling  in  the  noon-tide  shine.  A  great  procession  of 
children  with  white  veils,  white  shoes,  white  roses,  passes, 
and  the  whole  town  is  standing  with  its  hat  off  to  see  the 
religious  show.  When  I  look  at  my  little  merchant,  then, 
I  not  only  see  him,  but  that  procession  passing  over  the 
place ;  and  as  I  see  those  people  in  their  surplices,  I  can 
almost  see  Eustache  de  Saint  Pierre  and  his  comrades  walk- 
ing in  their  shirts  to  present  themselves  to  Edward  and 
Philippa  of  blessed  memory.  And  they  stand  before  the 
wrathful  monarch,  —  poor  fellows,  meekly  shuddering  in 
their  chemises,  with  ropes  round  their  necks ;  and  good 
Philippa  kneels  before  the  royal  conqueror,  and  says,  "  My 
King,  my  Edward,  my  beau  Sii^e  !  Give  these  citizens  their 
lives  for  our  Lady's  gramercy  and  the  sake  of  thy  Philippa !  " 
And  the  Plantagenet  growls,  and  scowls,  and  softens,  and 
he  lets  those  burgesses  go.  This  novel  and  remarkable 
historical  incident  passes  through  my  mind  as  I  see  the 
clergymen  and  clergy-boys  pass  in  their  little  short  white 
surplices  on  a  mid- August  day.  The  balconies  are  full,  the 
bells  are  all  in  a  jangle,  and  the  blue  noonday  sky  quivers 
overhead. 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  A   SKETCH-BOOK.  443 

I  suppose  other  pen  and  pencil  sketchers  have  the  same 
feeling.  The  sketch  brings  back,  not  only  the  scene,  but 
the  circumstances  under  which,  the  scene  was  viewed.  In 
taking  up  an  old  book,  for  instance,  written  in  former  days 
by  your  humble  servant,  he  comes  upon  passages  which  are 
outwardly  lively  and  facetious,  but  inspire  their  writer 
with  the  most  dismal  melancholy.  I  lose  all  cognizance  of 
the  text  sometimes,  which  is  hustled  and  elbowed  out  of 
sight  by  the  crowd  of  thoughts  which  throng  forward,  and 
which  were  alive  and  active  at  the  time  that  text  was  born. 
Ah,  my  good  sir !  a  man's  books  mayn't  be  interesting  (and 
I  could  mention  other  authors'  works  besides  this  one's  which 
set  me  to  sleep),  but  if  you  knew  all  a  writer's  thoughts, 
how  interesting  his  book  would  be  !  Why,  a  grocer's  day- 
book might  be  a  wonderful  history,  if  alongside  of  the 
entries  of  cheese,  pickles,  and  figs,  you  could  read  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  writer's  life,  and  the  griefs,  hopes,  joys, 
which  caused  the  heart  to  beat,  while  the  hand  was  writing 
and  the  ink  flowing  fresh.  Ah  memory !  ah  the  past,  ah 
the  sad  sad  past !  Look  under  this  waistcoat,  my  dear 
madam.  There.  Over  the  liver.  Don't  be  frightened. 
You  can't  see  it.  But  there,  at  this  moment,  I  assure  you, 
there  is  an  enormous  vulture  gnawing,  gnawing. 

Turn  over  the  page.  You  can't  deny  that  this  is  a  nice 
little  sketch  of  a  quaint  old  town,  with  city  towers,  and  an 
embattled  town  gate,  with  a  hundred  peaked  gables,  and 
rickety  balconies,  and  gardens  sweeping  down  to  the  river 
wall,  with  its  toppling  ancient  summer-houses  under  which 
the  river  ruslies ;  the  rushing  river,  the  talking  river,  that 
murmurs  all  day,  and  brawls  all  night  over  the  stones.  At 
early  morning  and  evening,  under  this  terrace  which  you 
see  in  the  sketch  —  it  is  the  terrace  of  the  Steinbock  or 
Capricorn  Hotel  —  the  cows  come;  and  there,  under  the 
walnut-trees  before  the  tannery,  is  a  fountain  and  pump 
where  the  maids  come  in  the  afternoon,  and  for  some  hours 
make  a  clatter  as  noisy  as  the  river.  Mountains  gird  it 
around,  clad  in  dark  green  firs,  with  purple  shadows  gushing 
over  their  sides,  and  glorious  changes  and  gradations  of  sun- 
rise and  setting.  A  more  picturesque,  quaint,  kind,  quiet 
little  town  than  this  of  Coire  in  the  Grisons,  I  have  seldom 
seen ;  or  a  more  comfortable  little  inn  than  this  of  the 
Steinbock  or  Capricorn,  on  the  terrace  of  which  we  are 
standing.  But  quick,  let  us  turn  the  page.  To  look  at  it 
makes  one  horribly  melancholy.     As  we  are  on  the  inn-ter- 


444  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

race  one  of  our  party  lies  ill  in  the  hotel  within.  When 
will  that  doctor  come  ?  Can  we  trust  to  a  Swiss  doctor  in 
a  remote  little  town  away  at  the  confines  of  the  railway 
world  ?  He  is  a  good,  sensible,  complacent  doctor,  laus 
j)0o, — the  people  of  the  hotel  as  kind,  as  attentive,  as 
gentle,  as  eager  to  oblige.  But  oh,  the  gloom  of  those  sun- 
shiny days  ;  the  sickening  languor  and  doubt  which  till  the 
heart  as  the  hand  is  making  yonder  sketch  and  I  think  of 
the  invalid  suffering  within  ! 

Quick,  turn  the  page.  And  what  is  here  ?  This  picture, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  represents  a  steamer  on  the  Alabama 
Eiver,  plying  (or  ivhich  2)lied)  between  Montgomery  and 
Mobile.  See,  there  is  a  black  nurse  with  a  cotton  handker- 
chief round  her  head,  dandling  and  tossing  a  white  baby. 
Look  in  at  the  open  door  of  that  cabin,  or  "  stateroom  "  as 
they  call  the  crib  yonder.  A  mother  is  leaning  by  a  bed- 
place  ;  and  see,  kicking  up  in  the  air,  are  a  little  pair  of 
white  fat  legs,  over  which  that  happy  young  mother  is 
bending  in  such  happy  tender  contemplation.  That  gentle- 
man with  a  forked  beard  and  a  slouched  hat,  whose  legs 
are  sprawling  here  and  there,  and  who  is  stabbing  his 
mouth  and  teeth  with  his  penknife,  is  quite  good-natured, 
though  he  looks  so  fierce.  A  little  time  ago,  as  I  was  read- 
ing in  the  cabin,  having  one  book  in  my  hand  and  another 
at  my  elbow,  he  affably  took  the  book  at  my  elbow,  read  in 
it  a  little,  and  put  it  down  by  my  side  again.  He  meant  no 
harm.  I  say  he  is  quite  good-natured  and  kind.  His  man- 
ners are  not  those  of  Mayfair,  but  is  not  Alabama  a  river  as 
well  as  Thames  ?  I  wish  that  other  little  gentleman  were 
in  the  cabin  who  asked  me  to  liquor  twice  or  thrice  in  the 
course  of  the  morning,  but  whose  hospitality  I  declined, 
preferring  not  to  be  made  merry  by  wine  or  strong  waters 
before  dinner.  After  dinner,  in  return  for  his  hospitality,  I 
asked  hivi  if  he  would  drink  ?  "  No,  sir,  I  have  dined,"  he 
answered  with  very  great  dignity,  and  a  tone  of  reproof. 
Very  good.     Manners  differ.     I  have  not  a  word  to  say. 

Well,  my  little  Mentor  is  not  in  my  sketch,  but  he  is  in 
my  mind  as  I  look  at  it :  and  this  sketch,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, is  especially  interesting  and  valuable,  because  the 
steamer  hleio  up  on  the  very  next  journey :  blew  up,  I  give 
you  my  honor,  —  burst  her  boilers  close  by  my  stateroom, 
so  that  I  might,  had  I  but  waited  for  a  week,  have  wit- 
nessed a  celebrated  institution  of  the  country,  and  had  the 
full  benefit  of  the  boiling. 


A    LEAF  OUT  OF  A    SKETCH-BOOK. 


445 


I  turn  a  page,  and  who  are  these  little  men  who  appear 
on  it  ?  Jim  and  Sady  are  two  3'oung  friends  of  mine  at 
Savannah  in  Georgia.  I  made  Sady's  acquaintance  on  a 
first  visit  to  America,  —  a  pretty  little  brown  boy  with 
beautiful  bright  eyes,  — and  it  appears  that  I  presented 
him  with  a  quarter  of  a  dollar,  which  princely  gift  he  re- 
membered years  afterwards,  for  never  were  eyes  more 
bright  and  kind  than  the  little  man's  when  he  saw  me,  and 
I  dined  with  his  kind  masters  on  mv  second  visit.  Jim  at 
my  first  visit  had  been  a  little  toddling  tadpole  of  a  crea- 


ture, but  during  the  interval  of  the  two  journeys  had  de- 
veloped into  the  full-blown  beauty  which  you  see.  On  the 
day  after  my  arrival  these  young  persons  paid  me  a  visit, 
and  here  is  a  humble  portraiture  of  them,  and  an  accurate 
account  of  a  conversation  which  took  place  between  us,  as 
taken  down  on  the  spot  by  the  elder  of  the  interlocutors. 

Jim  is  five  3'ears  old :  Sady  is  seben  :  only  Jim  is  a  great 
deal  fatter.  Jim  and  Sady  have  had  sausage  and  hominy 
for  breakfast.  One  sausage,  Jim's,  was  the  biggest.  Jim 
can  sing,  but  declines  on  being  pressed,  and  looks  at  Sady 
and  grins.     They  both  work  in  de  garden.     Jim  has  been 


446  ODDS  AND  ENDS. 

licked  by  Master,  but  Sady  never.  These  are  their  best 
clothes.  They  go  to  church  in  these  clothes.  Heard  a  fine 
sermon  yesterday,  but  don't  know  what  it  was  about. 
Never  heard  of  England,  never  heard  of  America.  Like 
orangees  best.  Don't  know  any  old  woman  who  sells 
orangees.  (A  pecunlanj  transaction  takes  place.)  Will  give 
that  quarter-dollar  to  Pa.  That  was  Pa  who  waited  at 
dinner.  Are  hungr}^,  but  dinner  not  cooked  yet.  Jim  all 
the  while  is  revolving  on  his  axis,  and  when  begged  to 
stand  still  turns  round  in  a  fitful  manner. 

\_Exeunt  Jim  and  Sady  with  a  cake  ajnece  ivhich  the 
housekeeper  gives  them.     Jim  tumbles  doimistairs. 
In  his  little  red  jacket,  his  little  — his  little  ?  —  his  im- 
mense red  trousers. 


On  my  word  the  fair  proportions  of  Jim  are  not  exag- 
gerated, —  such  a  queer  little  laughing  blackamoorkin  1 
have  never  seen.  Seen  ?  I  see  him  now,  and  Sady,  and  a 
half-dozen  more  of  the  good  people,  creeping  on  silent  bare 
feet  to  the  drawing-room  door  when  the  music  begins,  and 
listening  with  all  their  ears,  with  all  their  eyes.  Good- 
night, kind,  warm-hearted  little  Sady  and  Jim  !  May  peace 
soon  be  within  your  doors,  and  plenty  within  your  walls  ! 
I  have  had  so  much  kindness  there,  that  I  grieve  to  think 
of  friends  in  arms,  and  brothers  in  anger. 


LECTURE. 


CHARITY  AXD  HUMOR* 

Several  charitable  ladies  of  this  city,  to  some  of  whom 
I  am  under  great  personal  obligation,  having  thought  that 
a  Lecture  of  mine  would  advance  a  benevolent  end  which 
they  had  in  view,  I  have  preferred,  in  place  of  delivering 
a  Discourse,  which  many  of  my  hearers  no  doubt  know 
already,  upon  a  subject  merely  literary  or  biographical,  to 
put  together  a  few  thoughts  which  may  serve  as  a  supple- 
ment to  the  former  Lectures,  if  you  like,  and  which  have 
this  at  least  in  common  with  the  kind  purpose  which 
assembles  you  liere,  that  they  rise  out  of  the  same  occasion, 
and  treat  of  charity. 

Besides  contributing  to  our  stock  of  happiness,  to  our 
harmless  laugliter  and  amusement,  to  our  scorn  for  false- 
hood and  pretension,  to  our  righteous  hatred  of  hypocrisy, 
to  our  education  in  the  perception  of  truth,  our  love  of 
honesty,  our  knowledge  of  life,  and  shrewd  guidance 
through  the  world,  have  not  our  humorous  writers,  our  gay 
and  kind  week-day  preachers,  done  much  in  support  of  that 
holy  cause  which  has  assembled  you  in  this  place ;  and 
which  you  are  all  abetting  —  the  cause  of  love  and  charity, 
the  cause  of   the  poor,  the  weak,  and  the  unhappy ;  the 

*  Tliis  lecture  was  first  delivered  in  New  York  on  behalf  of  a  charity 
at  the  time  of  Mr.  Tliackcniys  visit  to  America  in  1852,  when  he  had 
been  giving  his  series  of  lectures  on  the  English  Hiimorists.  It  was 
subsequently  repeated  with  slight  variations  in  London  (once  under  the 
title  of  "  AVeek-day  Preachers  ')  for  the  benefit  of  the  families  of  Angus 
B.  Reach  and  Douglas  Jerrold.  The  lecture  on  behalf  of  the  Jerrold 
Fund  was  given  on  July  22,  1857,  the  day  after  the  declaration  of  the  poll 
in  the  Oxford  election,  when  Mr.  Thackeray  was  a  candidate  for  Parlia- 
ment, and  was  defeated  by  Mr.  Cardwell.  The  Times,  in  its  account  of 
the  lecture,  says:  "The  opening  words  of  the  discourse,  uttered  with  a 
comical  solemnity,  of  which  Mr.  Thackeray  alone  is  capable,  ran  thus:  — 
'  Walking  j^esterday  in  the  High  Street  of  a  certain  ancient  city."  So 
began  the  lecturer,  and  was  interrupted  by  a  storm  of  laughter  that 
deferred  for  some  moments  the  completion  of  the  sentence." 

447 


448  LECTURE. 

sweet  mission  of  love  and  tenderness  and  peace  and  good 
will  towards  men  ?  That  same  theme  w^hich  is  urged  upon 
you  by  the  eloquence  and  example  of  good  men  to  whom 
you  are  delighted  listeners  on  Sabbath  days,  is  taught 
in  his  way  and  according  to  his  power  by  the  humorous 
writer,  the  commentator  on  every-day  life  and  manners. 

And  as  you  are  here  assembled  for  a  charitable  purpose, 
giving  your  contributions  at  the  door  to  benefit  deserving 
people  who  need  them,  I  like  to  hope  and  think  that  the 
men  of  our  calling  have  done  something  in  aid  of  the  cause 
of  charity,  and  have  helped,  with  kind  words  and  kind 
thoughts  at  least,  to  confer  happiness  and  to  do  good.  If 
the  humorous  writers  claim  to  be  week-day  preachers,  have 
they  conferred  any  benefit  by  their  sermons  ?  Are  people 
happier,  better,  better  disposed  to  their  neighbors,  more 
inclined  to  do  works  of  kindness,  to  love,  forbear,  forgive, 
pity,  after  reading  in  Addison,  in  Steele,  in  Fielding,  in 
Goldsmith,  in  Hood,  in  Dickens  ?  I  hope  and  believe  so, 
and  fancy  that  in  writing  they  are  also  acting  charitably, 
contributing  with  the  means  which  Heaven  supplies  them 
to  forward  the  end  which  brings  you  too  together. 

A  love  of  the  human  species  is  a  very  vague  and  indefi- 
nite kind  of  virtue,  sitting  very  easily  on  a  man,  not  con- 
fining his  actions  at  all,  shining  in  print,  or  exploding  in 
paragraphs,  after  which  efforts  of  benevolence  the  philan- 
thropist is  sometimes  said  to  go  home,  and  be  no  better 
than  his  neighbors.  Tartuffe  and  Joseph  Surface,  Stiggins 
and  Chadband,  who  are  always  preaching  fine  sentiments, 
and  are  no  more  virtuous  than  hundreds  of  those  whom 
they  denounce  and  whom  they  cheat,  are  fair  objects  of 
mistrust  and  satire ;  but  their  hypocrisy,  the  homage, 
according  to  the  old  saying,  which  vice  pays  to  virtue,  has 
this  of  good  in  it,  that  its  fruits  are  good:  a  man  may 
preach  good  morals,  though  he  may  be  himself  but  a  lax 
practitioner ;  a  Pharisee  may  put  pieces  of  gold  into  the 
charity-plate  out  of  mere  hypocrisy  and  ostentation,  but 
the  bad  man's  gold  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  as 
well  as  the  good  man's.  The  butcher  and  baker  must  needs 
look,  not  to  motives,  but  to  money,  in  return  for  their 
wares. 

I  am  not  going  to  hint  that  we  of  the  Literary  calling 
resemble  Monsieur  Tartuffe  or  Monsieur  Stiggins,  though 
there  may  be  such  men  in  our  body,  as  there  are  in  all. 

A  literary  man  of  the  humoristic  turn  is  pretty  sure  to 


CHARITY  AXD  HUMOR.  449 

be  of  a  pliilantliropic  nature,  to  have  a  great  sensibility,  to 
be  easily  moved  to  pain  or  pleasure,  keenly  to  appreciate 
the  varieties  of  temper  of  people  round  about  him,  and 
sympathize  in  their  laughter,  love,  amusement,  tears. 
Such  a  man  is  philanthropic,  man-loving  by  nature,  as 
another  is  irascible,  or  red-haired,  or  six  feet  high.  And 
so  I  would  arrogate  no  particular  merit  to  literary  men  for 
the  possession  of  this  faculty  of  doing  good  which  some  of 
them  enjoy.  It  costs  a  gentleman  no  sacrifice  to  be  benev- 
olent on  paper ;  and  the  luxury  of  indulging  in  the  most 
beautiful  and  brilliant  sentiments  never  makes  any  man  a 
penny  the  poorer.  A  literary  man  is  no  better  than  an- 
other, as  far  as  my  experience  goes ;  and  a  man  writing  a 
book,  no  better  nor  worse  than  one  who  keeps  accounts  in 
a  ledger,  or  follows  any  other  occupation.  Let  us,  however, 
give  him  credit  for  the  good,  at  least,  which  he  is  the 
means  of  doing,  as  we  give  credit  to  a  man  with  a  million 
for  the  hundred  which  he  puts  into  the  plate  at  a  charity- 
sermon,  lie  never  misses  them.  He  has  made  them  in  a 
moment  by  a  lucky  speculation,  and  parts  with  them, 
knowing  that  he  has  an  almost  endless  balance  at  his  bank, 
whence  he  can  call  for  more.  But  in  esteeming  the  bene- 
faction, we  are  grateful  to  the  benefactor,  too,  somewhat ; 
and  so  of  men  of  genius,  richly  endowed,  and  lavish  in 
parting  with  their  mind's  wealth,  we  may  view  them  at 
least  kindly  and  favorably,  and  be  thankful  for  the  bounty 
of  which  Providence  has  made  them  the  dispensers. 

I  have  said  ni3'self  somewhere,  I  do  not  know  with  what 
correctness  (for  definitions  never  are  complete),  that  humor 
is  wit  and  love ;  I  am  sure,  at  any  rate,  that  the  best 
humor  is  that  which  contains  most  humanit}^,  that  which 
is  flavored  throughout  with  tenderness  and  kindness.  This 
love  does  not  demand  constant  utterance  or  actual  expres- 
sion, as  a  good  father,  in  conversation  with  his  children  or 
wife,  is  not  perpetually  embracing  them,  or  making  protes- 
tations of  his  love ;  as  a  lover  in  the  society  of  his  mistress 
is  not,  as  far  as  I  am  led  to  believe,  forever  squeezing  her 
hand  or  sighing  in  her  ear.  "My  soul's  darling,  I  adore 
you ! "  He  shows  his  love  by  his  conduct,  by  his  fidelity, 
by  his  watchful  desire  to  make  the  beloved  person  happy  ; 
it  lightens  from  his  eyes  when  she  appears,  though  he  may 
not  speak  it ;  it  fills  his  heart  when  she  is  present  or 
absent ;  influences  all  his  words  and  actions ;  suffuses  his 
whole  being ;  it  sets  the  father  cheerily  to  work  through 


450  LECTURE. 

the  lung  day,  supports  him  through  the  tedious  labor  of 
the  weary  absence  or  journey,  and  sends  him  happy  home 
again,  yearning  towards  the  wife  and  children.  This  kind 
of  love  is  not  a  spasm,  but  a  life.  It  fondles  and  caresses 
at  due  seasons,  no  doubt;  but  the  fond  heart  is  always 
beating  fondly  and  truly,  though  the  wife  is  not  sitting 
hand  in  hand  with  him,  or  the  children  hugging  at  his 
knee.  And  so  with  a  loving  humor :  I  think,  it  is  a  genial 
writer's  habit  of  being ;  it  is  the  kind  gentle  spirit's  way 
of  looking  out  on  the  world  —  that  sweet  friendliness, 
which  fills  his  heart  and  his  style.  You  recognize  it,  even 
though  there  may  not  be  a  single  point  of  wit,  or  a  single 
pathetic  touch  in  the  page ;  though  you  may  not  be  called 
upon  to  salute  his  genius  by  a  laugh  or  a  tear.  That  colli- 
sion of  ideas,  which  provokes  the  one  or  the  other,  must 
be  occasional.  They  must  be  like  papa's  embraces,  which 
I  spoke  of  anon,  who  only  delivers  them  now  and  again, 
and  cannot  be  expected  to  go  on  kissing  the  children  all 
night.  And  so  the  writer's  jokes  and  sentiment,  his  ebul- 
litions of  feeling,  his  outbreaks  of  high  spirits,  must  not 
be  too  frequent.  One  tires  of  a  page  of  which  every  sen- 
tence sparkles  with  points,  of  a  sentimentalist  who  is 
always  pumping  the  tears  from  his  eyes  or  your  own.  One 
suspects  the  genuineness  of  the  tear,  the  naturalness  of  the 
humor ;  these  ought  to  be  true  and  manly  in  a  man,  as 
everything  else  in  his  life  should  be  manly  and  true ;  and 
he  loses  his  dignity  by  laughing  or  weeping  out  of  place,  or 
too  often. 

When  the  Eeverend  Laurence  Sterne  begins  to  sentimen- 
talize over  the  carriage  in  Monsieur  Dessein's  courtyard, 
and  pretends  to  squeeze  a  tear  out  of  a  rickety  old  shandry- 
dan ;  when,  presently,  he  encounters  the  dead  donkey  on 
his  road  to  Paris,  and  snivels  over  that  asinine  corpse,  I 
say :  "  Away,  you  drivelling  quack :  do  not  palm  off  these 
grimaces  of  grief  upon  simple  folk  who  know  no  better, 
and  cry  misled  by  your  hypocrisy."  Tears  are  sacred.  The 
tributes  of  kind  hearts  to  misfortune,  the  mites  which  gen- 
tle souls  drop  into  the  collections  made  for  God's  poor  and 
unhappy,  are  not  to  be  tricked  out  of  them  by  a  whimper- 
ing hypocrite,  handing  round  a  begging-box  for  your  com- 
passion, and  asking  your  pity  for  a  lie.  When  that  same 
man  tells  me  of  Lefevre's  illness  and  Uncle  Toby's  charity ; 
of  the  noble  at  Eennes  coming  home  and  reclaiming  his 
sword,  I  thank  him  for  the  generous  emotion  which,  spring- 


CHAIUTY  AND  HUMOR.  451 

ing  geimiiiely  from  liis  own  heart,  lias  caused  mine  to 
admire  benevolence  and  sympathize  with  honor;  and  to  feel 
love,  and  kindness,  and  pit}'. 

If  I  do  not  love  Swift,  as,  thank  God,  I  do  not,  however 
immensely  I  may  admire  him,  it  is  because  I  revolt  from 
the  man  who  placards  himself  as  a  professional  hater  of 
his  own  kind ;  because  he  chisels  his  savage  indignation  on 
his  tombstone,  as  if  to  perpetuate  his  protest  against  being 
born  of  our  race  —  the  suffering,  the  weak,  the  erring,  the 
wicked,  if  you  will,  but  still  the  friendly,  the  loving  chil- 
dren of  God  our  Father :  it  is  because,  as  I  read  through 
Swift's  dark  volumes,  I  never  find  the  aspect  of  nature 
seems  to  delight  him  ;  the  smiles  of  children  to  please  him ; 
the  sight  of  wedded  love  to  soothe  him.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber in  any  line  of  his  writing  a  passing  allusion  to  a  natural 
scene  of  beauty.  When  he  speaks  about  the  families  of 
his  comrades  and  brother  clergymen,  it  is  to  assail  them 
with  gibes  and  scorn,  and  to  laugh  at  them  brutally  for 
being  fathers  and  for  being  poor.  He  does  mention  in 
the  Journal  to  Stella  a  sick  child,  to  be  sure — a  child  of 
Lady  Masham,  that  was  ill  of  the  small-pox  —  but  then  it 
is  to  confound  the  brat  for  being  ill,  and  the  mother  for 
attending  to  it,  when  she  should  have  been  busy  about  a 
Court  intrigue,  in  which  the  Dean  was  deeply  engaged. 
And  he  alludes  to  a  suitor  of  Stella's,  and  a  match  she 
might  have  made,  and  would  have  made,  very  likely,  with 
an  honorable  and  faithful  and  attached  man,  Tisdall,  who 
loved  her,  and  of  whom  Swift  speaks  in  a  letter  to  this 
lady  in  language  so  foul  that  you  would  not  bear  to  hear  it. 
In  treating  of  the  good  the  humorists  have  done,  of  the 
love  and  kindness  they  have  taught  and  left  behind  them, 
it  is  not  of  this  one  I  dare  speak.  Heaven  help  the  lonely 
misanthrope  !  be  kind  to  that  multitude  of  sins,  with  so 
little  charity  to  cover  them  ! 

Of  ^Ir.  Congreve's  contributions  to  the  English  stock  of 
benevolence,  I  do  not  speak ;  for,  of  any  moral  legacy  to 
posterity,  I  doubt  whether  that  brilliant  man  ever  thought 
at  all.  He  had  some  money,  as  I  have  told,  every  shilling 
of  Avliich  he  left  to  his  friend  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
a  lady  of  great  fortune  and  the  highest  fashion.  He  gave 
the  gold  of  his  brains  to  persons  of  fortune  and  fashion, 
too.  There  is  no  more  feeling  in  his  comedies  than  in  as 
many  books  of  Euclid.  He  no  more  pretends  to  teach  love 
for  the  poor,  and    good  will  for  the  unfortunate,    than  a 


452  LECTURE. 

dancing  master  does  ;  he  teaches  pirouettes  and  flic-flacs  ; 
and  how  to  bow  to  a  lady,  and  to  walk  a  minuet.  In  his 
private  life  Congreve  was  immensely  liked  —  more  so  than 
any  man  of  his  age  almost ;  and,  to  have  been  so  liked, 
must  have  been  kind  and  good-natured.  His  good-nature 
bore  him  through  extreme  bodily  ills  and  pain,  with  uncom- 
mon cheerfulness  and  courage.  Being  so  gay,  so  bright, 
so  popular,  such  a  grand  seigneur,  be  sure  he  was  kind  to 
those  about  him,  generous  to  his  dependants,  serviceable  to 
his  friends.  Society  does  not  like  a  man  so  long  as  it  liked 
Congreve,  unless  he  is  likable  ;  it  finds  out  a  quack  very 
soon ;  it  scorns  a  poltroon  or  a  curmudgeon :  we  may  be 
certain  that  this  man  was  brave,  good-tempered,  and  liberal ; 
so,  very  likely,  is  Monsieur  Pirouette,  of  whom  we  spoke  ; 
he  cuts  his  capers,  he  grins,  bows,  and  dances  to  his  fiddle. 
In  private  he  may  have  a  hundred  virtues ;  in  public,  he 
teaches  dancing.     His  business  is  cotillons,  not  ethics. 

As  much  may  be  said  of  those  charming  and  lazy  Epicu- 
reans, Gay  and  Prior,  sweet  lyric  singers,  comrades  of  Anac- 
reon,  and  disciples  of  love  and  the  bottle.  "  Is  there  any 
moral  shut  within  the  bosom  of  a  rose  ?  "  sings  our  great 
Tennyson.  Does  a  nightingale  preach  from  a  bough,  or  the 
lark  from  his  cloud  ?  Not  knowingly ;  yet  we  may  be 
grateful,  and  love  larks  and  roses,  and  the  flower-crowned 
minstrels,  too,  who  laugh  and  who  sing. 

Of  Addison's  contributions  to  the  charity  of  the  world  I 
have  spoken  before,  in  trying  to  depict  that  noble  figure  ; 
and  say  now,  as  then,  that  we  should  thank  him  as  one  of 
the  greatest  benefactors  of  that  vast  and  immeasurably 
spreading  family  which  speaks  our  common  tongue. 
Wherever  it  is  spoken,  there  is  no  man  that  does  not  feel, 
and  understand,  and  use  the  noble  English  word  "  gentle- 
man." And  there  is  no  man  that  teaches  us  to  be  gentle- 
men better  than  Joseph  Addison.  Gentle  in  our  bearing 
through  life  ;  gentle  and  courteous  to  our  neighbor  ;  gentle 
in  dealing  with  his  follies  and  weaknesses  ;  gentle  in  treat- 
ing his  opposition ;  deferential  to  the  old  ;  kindly  to  the 
poor,  and  those  below  us  in  degree ;  for  people  above  us 
and  below  us  we  must  find,  in  whatever  hemisphere  we 
dwell,  whether  kings  or  presidents  govern  us  ;  and  in  no 
republic  or  monarchy  that  I  know  of,  is  a  citizen  exempt 
from  the  tax  of  befriending  poverty  and  weakness,  of 
respecting  age,  and  of  honoring  his  father  and  mother.  It 
has  just  been  whispered  to  me  —  I  have  not  been  three 


CHARITY  AND  HUMOR.  453 

months  in  the  country,  and,  of  course,  cannot  venture  to 
express  an  opinion  of  my  own  —  that,  in  regard  to  paying 
this  latter  tax  of  respect  and  honor  to  age,  some  very  few 
of  the  republican  youths  aie  occasionally  a  little  remiss. 
1  have  heard  of  young  Sons  of  Freedom  publishing  their 
Declaration  of  Independence  before  they  could  well  spell 
it ;  and  cutting  the  connection  with  father  and  mother 
before  they  had  learned  to  shave.  My  own  time  of  life 
having  been  stated,  by  various  enlightened  organs  of  public 
opinion,  at  almost  any  figure  from  forty-five  to  sixty,  I 
cheerfully  own  that  I  belong  to  the  fogy  interest,  and  asl^ 
leave  to  rank  in,  and  plead  for,  that  respectable  class. 
Xow  a  gentleman  can  but  be  a  gentleman,  in  Broadway  or 
the  backwoods,  in  Pall  Mall  or  California ;  and  where  and 
whenever  he  lives,  thousands  of  miles  away  in  the  wilder- 
ness, or  hundreds  of  years  hence,  I  am  sure  that  reading 
the  writings  of  this  true  gentleman,  this  true  Christian, 
this  noble  Joseph  Addison,  must  do  him  good.  He  may 
take  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  to  the  Diggings  with  him,  and 
learn  to  be  gentle  and  good-humored,  and  urbane,  and 
friendly  in  the  midst  of  that  struggle  in  which  his  life  is 
engaged.  I  take  leave  to  say  that  the  most  brilliant  youth 
of  this  city  may  read  over  this  delightful  memorial  of  a  by- 
gone age,  of  fashions  long  passed  away ;  of  manners  long 
since  changed  and  modified;  of  noble  gentlemen,  and  a 
great  and  a  brilliant  and  polished  society  ;  and  find  in  it 
much  to  charm  and  polish,  to  refine  and  instruct  him,  a 
courteousness  which  can  be  out  of  place  at  no  time,  and 
under  no  flag,  a  politeness  and  simplicity,  a  truthful  man- 
hood, a  gentle  respect  and  deference,  which  may  be  kept 
as  the  un bought  grace  of  life,  and  cheap  defence  of  man- 
kind, long  after  its  old  artificial  distinctions,  after  periwigs, 
and  small-swords,  and  ruffles,  and  red-heeled  shoes,  and 
titles,  and  stars  and  garters  have  passed  away.  I  will  tell 
you  when  I  have  been  put  in  mind  of  two  of  the  finest  gentle- 
men books  bring  us  any  mention  of.  I  mean  our  books 
(not  books  of  history,  but  books  of  humor).  I  will  tell  3'Ou 
when  I  have  been  put  in  mind  of  the  courteous  gallantry 
of  the  noble  knight,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  of  Coverley 
Manor,  of  the  noble  Hidalgo  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha ; 
here  in  your  own  omnibus  carriages  and  railway  cars,  when 
I  have  seen  a  woman  step  in,  handsome  or  not,  well-dressed 
or  not,  and  a  workman  in  hobnail  shoes,  or  a  dandy  in  the 
height  of  fashion,  rise  up  and  give  her  his  place.     I  think 


454  LECTURE. 

Mr,  Spectator,  with  his  short  face,  if  he  had  seen  such  a 
deed  of  courtesy,  would  have  smiled  a  sweet  smile  to  the 
doer  of  that  gentleman-like  action,  and  have  made  him  a 
low  bow  from  under  his  great  periwig,  and  have  gone  home 
and  written  a  pretty  paper  about  him. 

I  am  sure  Dick  Steele  would  have  hailed  him,  were  he 
dandy  or  mechanic,  and  asked  him  to  a  tavern  to  share  a 
bottle,  or  perhaps  half  a  dozen.  Mind,  I  do  not  set  down 
the  five  last  flasks  to  Dick's  score  for  virtue,  and  look  upon 
them  as  works  of  the  most  questionable  supererogation. 

Steele,  as  a  literary  benefactor  to  the  world's  charity, 
must  rank  very  high  indeed,  not  merely  from  his  givings, 
which  were  abundant,  but  because  his  endowments  are  pro- 
digiously increased  in  value  since  he  bequeathed  them,^  as 
the  revenues  of  the  lands,  bequeathed  to  our  Foundling 
Hospital  at  London,  by  honest  Captain  Coram,  its  founder, 
are  immensely  enhanced  by  the  houses  since  built  upon 
them.  Steele  was  the  founder  of  sentimental  writing  in 
English,  and  how  the  land  has  been  since  occupied,  and 
what  hundreds  of  us  have  laid  out  gardens  and  built  up 
tenements  on  Steele's  ground !  Before  his  time,  readers  or 
hearers  were  never  called  upon  to  cry  except  at  a  tragedy, 
and  compassion  was  not  expected  to  express  itself  other- 
wise than  in  blank  verse,  or  for  personages  much  lower  in 
rank  than  a  dethroned  monarch,  or  a  widowed  or  a  jilted 
empress.  He  stepped  off  the  high-heeled  cothurnus,  and 
came  down  into  common  life  ;  he  held  out  his  great  hearty 
arms,  and  embraced  us  all ;  he  had  a  bow  for  all  women ; 
a  kiss  for  all  children ;  a  shake  of  the  hand  for  all  men, 
high  or  low ;  he  showed  us  heaven's  sun  shining  every  day 
on  quiet  homes ;  not  gilded  palace-roofs  only,  or  Court  pro- 
cessions, or  heroic  warriors  fighting  for  princesses,  and 
pitclied  battles.  He  took  away  comedy  fi'om  behind  the 
fine  lady's  alcove,  or  the  screen  where  the  libertine  was 
watching  her.  He  ended  all  that  wretched  business  of 
wives  jeering  at  their  husbands,  of  rakes  laughing  wives, 
and  husbands,  too,  to  scorn.  That  miserable,  rouged, 
tawdry,  sparkling,  hollow-hearted  comedy  of  the  Eestora- 
tion  fled  before  him,  and,  like  the  wicked  spirit  in  the 
Eairy  books,  shrank,  as  Steele  let  the  daylight  in,  and 
shrieked,  and  shuddered,  and  vanished.  The  stage  of  hu- 
morists has  been  common  life  ever  since  Steele's  and  Addi- 
son's time ;  the  joys  and  griefs,  the  aversions  and  sympa- 
thies, the  laughter  and  tears  of  nature. 


CHARITY  AND  HUMOR.  455 

And  here,  coming  off  the  stage,  and  throwing  aside  the 
motley-habit,  or  satiric  disguise,  in  which  he  had  before 
entertained  you,  mingling  with  the  world,  and  wearing  the 
same  coat  as  his  neighbor,  the  humorist's  service  became 
straightway  immensely  more  available  ;  his  means  of  doing 
good  infinitely  multiplied ;  his  success,  and  the  esteem  in 
which  he  was  held,  proportionately  increased.  It  requires 
an  effort,  of  which  all  minds  are  not  capable,  to  understand 
"  Don  Quixote ; "  children  and  common  people  still  read 
"  Gulliver  "  for  the  story  merely.  Many  more  persons  are 
sickened  by  "Jonathan  Wild"  than  can  comprehend  the 
satire  of  it.  Each  of  the  great  men  who  wrote  those  books 
was  speaking  from  behind  the  satiric  mask  I  anon  men- 
tioned. Its  distortions  appall  many  simple  spectators  ;  its 
settled  sneer  or  laugh  is  unintelligible  to  thousands,  who 
have  not  the  wit  to  interpret  the  meaning  of  the  vizored 
satirist  preaching  from  within.  Many  a  man  was  at  fault 
about  Jonathan  Wild's  greatness,  who  could  feel  and  relish 
Alhvorthy's  goodness  in  '-Tom  Jones,"  and  Dr.  Harrison's  in 
"Amelia,"  and  dear  Parson  Adams  and  Joseph  Andrews. 
We  love  to  read  —  we  may  grow  ever  so  old,  but  we  love  to 
read  of  them  still  —  of  love  and  beauty,  of  frankness,  and 
bravery,  and  generosity.  We  hate  liypocrites  and  cowards  ; 
we  long  to  defend  oppressed  innocence,  and  to  soothe  and 
succor  gentle  women  and  children.  We  are  glad  when  vice 
is  foiled  and  rascals  punished  ;  we  lend  a  foot  to  kick  Blifil 
downstairs ;  and  as  we  attend  the  brave  bridegroom  to  his 
wedding  on  the  happy  marriage  day,  we  ask  the  grooms- 
man's privilege  to  salute  the  blushing  cheek  of  Sophia.  A 
lax  morality  in  many  a  vital  point  I  own  in  Fielding,  but  a 
great  hearty  sympathy  and  benevolence ;  a  great  kindness 
for  the  poor ;  a  great  gentleness  and  pity  for  the  unfor- 
tunate ;  a  great  love  for  the  pure  and  good ;  these  are 
among  the  contributions  to  the  charity  of  the  world  with 
which  this  erring  but  noble  creature  endowed  it. 

As  for  Goldsmith,  if  the  youngest  and  most  unlettered 
person  here  has  not  been  happy  with  the  family  at  Wake- 
field ;  has  not  rejoiced  when  Olivia  returned,  and  been 
thankful  for  her  forgiveness  and  restoration ;  has  not 
laughed  with  delighted  good  humor  over  ]Moses's  gross  of 
green  spectacles ;  has  not  loved  with  all  his  heart  the  good 
Vicar,  and  that  kind  spirit  which  created  those  charming 
figures,  and  devised  the  beneficent  fiction  which  speaks  to 
us  so  tenderly  —  what  call  is  there  for  me  to  speak  ?    In 


456  LECTURE. 

this  place,  and  on  this  occasion,  remembering  these  men,  I 
claim  from  you  your  sympathy  for  the  good  they  have 
done,  and  for  the  sweet  charity  which  they  have  bestowed 
on  the  world. 

When  humor  joins  with  rhythm  and  music,  and  appears 
in  song,  its  influence  is  irresistible,  its  charities  are  count- 
less, it  stirs  the  feelings  to  love,  peace,  friendship,  as  scarce 
any  moral  agent  can.  The  songs  of  Beranger  are  hymns  of 
love  and  tenderness ;  I  have  seen  great  whiskered  French- 
men warbling  the  "  Bonne  Vieille,'^  the  "  Soldats,  an  pas, 
aux  pas,'^  with  tears  rolling  down  their  mustachios.  At  a 
Burns  Festival  I  have  seen  Scotchmen  singing  Burns,  while 
the  drops  twinkled  on  their  furrowed  cheeks  ;  while  each 
rough  hand  was  flung  out  to  grasp  its  neighbor's ;  while 
early  scenes  and  sacred  recollections,  and  dear  and  delight- 
ful memories  of  the  past  came  rushing  back  at  the  sound 
of  the  familiar  words  and  musicj  and  the  softened  heart 
was  full  of  love  and  friendship  and  home.  Humor !  if 
tears  are  the  alms  of  gentle  spirits,  and  may  be  counted,  as 
sure  they  may,  among  the  sweetest  of  life's  charities,  —  of 
that  kindly  sensibility,  and  sweet  sudden  emotion,  which 
exhibits  itself  at  the  eyes,  I  know  no  such  provocative  as 
humor.  It  is  an  irresistible  sympathizer ;  it  surprises  you 
into  compassion :  you  are  laughing  and  disarmed,  and  sud- 
denly forced  into  tears.  I  heard  a  humorous  balladist  not 
long  since,  a  minstrel  with  wool  on  his  head,  and  an  ultra- 
Ethiopian  complexion,  who  performed  a  negro  ballad  that 
I  confess  moistened  these  spectacles  in  the  most  unex- 
pected manner.  They  have  gazed  at  dozens  of  tragedy- 
queens,  dying  on  the  stage,  and  expiring  in  appropriate 
blank  verse,  and  I  never  wanted  to  wipe  them.  They  have 
looked  up,  with  deep  respect  be  it  said,  at  many  scores  of 
clergymen  in  pulpits,  and  without  being  dimmed ;  and  be- 
hold a  vagabond  with  a  corked  face  and  a  banjo  sings  a 
little  song,  strikes  a  wild  note  which  sets  the  whole  heart 
thrilling  with  happy  pity.  Humor  !  humor  is  the  mistress 
of  tears;  she  knows  the  way  to  the  fo7is  lachrymaruin, 
strikes  in  dry  and  rugged  places  with  her  enchanting  wand, 
and  bids  the  fountain  gush  and  sparkle.  She  has  refreshed 
myriads  more  from  her  natural  springs  than  ever  tragedy 
has  watered  from  her  pompous  old  urn. 

Popular  humor,  and  especially  modern  popular  humor, 
and  the  writers,  its  exponents,  are  always  kind  and  chival- 
rous, taking  the  side  of  the  weak  against  the  strong.     In 


CHARITY  AND  HUMOR.  457 

our  plays,  and  books,  and  entertainments  for  the  lower 
classes  in  England,  I  scarce  remember  a  story  or  theat- 
rical piece  in  which  a  wicked  aristocrat  is  not  bepummelled 
by  a  dashing  young  champion  of  the  people.  There  was  a 
book  which  had  an  immense  popularity  in  England,  and  I 
believe  has  been  greatly  read  here,  in  which  the  Mysteries 
of  the  Court  of  London  were  said  to  be  unveiled  by  a  gen- 
tleman who,  I  suspect,  knows  about  as  much  about  the 
Court  of  London  as  he  does  of  that  of  Pekin.  Years 
ago  I  treated  myself  to  sixpennyworth  of  this  performance 
at  a  railway  station,  and  found  poor  dear  George  IV.,  our 
late  most  religious  and  gracious  king,  occupied  in  the  most 
flagitious  designs  against  the  tradesmen's  families  in  his 
metropolitan  city.  A  couple  of  years  after,  I  took  six- 
pennyworth  more  of  the  same  delectable  history :  George 
IV.  was  still  at  work,  still  ruining  the  peace  of  tradesmen's 
families ;  he  had  been  at  it  for  two  whole  years,  and  a 
bookseller  at  the  Brighton  station  told  me  that  this  book 
was  by  many,  many  times  the  most  popular  of  all  periodical 
tales  then  published,  "  because,"  says  he,  "  it  lashes  the  ar- 
istocracy ! "  Not  long  since  I  went  to  two  penny  theatres 
in  London ;  immense  eager  crowds  of  people  thronged  the 
buildings,  and  the  vast  masses  thrilled  and  vibrated  with 
the  emotion  produced  by  the  piece  represented  on  the 
stage,  and  burst  into  applause  or  laughter,  such  as  many  a 
polite  actor  would  sigh  for  in  vain.  In  both  these  pieces 
there  was  a  wicked  Lord  kicked  out  of  the  window  —  there 
is  always  a  wicked  Lord  kicked  out  of  the  window.  First 
piece  —  "  Domestic  drama  —  Thrilling  interest !  — Weaver's 
family  in  distress  !  —  Fanny  gives  away  her  bread  to  little 
Jacky,  and  starves !  —  Enter  wicked  Lord :  tempts  Fanny 
with  offer  of  Diamond  Xecklace,  Champagne  Suppers,  and 
coach  to  ride  in  !  —  Enter  sturdy  Blacksmith.  —  Scuffle  be- 
tween Blacksmith  and  Aristocratic  minion :  exit  wicked 
Lord  out  of  the  window."  Fanny,'  of  course,  becomes  ^Irs. 
Blacksmith. 

The  second  piece  was  a  nautical  drama,  also  of  thrilling 
interest,  consisting  chiefly  of  hornpipes,  and  acts  of  most 
tremendous  oppression  on  the  part  of  certain  Earls  and 
Magistrates  towards  the  people.  Two  wicked  Lords  were 
in  this  piece  the  atrocious  scoundrels :  one  Aristocrat,  a 
deep-dyed  villain,  in  short  duck  trousers  and  Berlin  cotton 
gloves ;  while  the  other  minion  of  wealth  enjoyed  an  eye- 
glass with  a  blue  ribbon,  and  whisked  about  the  stage  with 


458  LECTURE. 

a  penny  cane.  Having  made  away  witli  Fanny  Forester's 
lover,  Tom  Bowling,  by  means  of  a  press-gang,  they  meet 
her  all  alone  on  a  common,  and  subject  her  to  the  most  op- 
jirobrious  language  and  behavior.  "Release  me,  villains!" 
says  Fanny,  pulling  a  brace  of  pistols  out  of  her  pockets, 
and  crossing  them  over  her  breast  so  as  to  cover  wicked 
Ijord  to  the  right,  wicked  Lord  to  the  left ;  and  they  might 
have  remained  in  that  position  ever  so  much  longer  (for  the 
aristocratic  rascals  nad  pistols  too),  had  not  Tom  Bowling 
returned  from  sea  at  the  very  nick  of  time,  armed  with  a 
great  marlinespike,  with  which  —  whack !  whack  !  down  goes 
wicked  Lord  No.  1  —  wicked  Lord  No.  2.  Fanny  rushes 
into  Tom's  arms  with  an  hysterical  shriek,  and  I  dare  say 
they  marry,  and  are  very  happy  ever  after.  Popular  fun  is 
always  kind :  it  is  the  champion  of  the  humble  against  the 
great.  In  all  popular  parables,  it  is  Little  Jack  that  con- 
quers, and  the  Giant  that  topples  down.  I  think  our  pop- 
ular authors  are  rather  hard  upon  the  great  folks.  Well, 
well !  their  lordships  have  all  the  money,  and  can  afford  to 
be  laughed  at. 

In  our  days,  in  England,  the  importance  of  the  humorous 
preacher  has  prodigiously  increased :  his  audiences  are 
enormous ;  every  week  or  month  his  happy  congregations 
flock  to  him ;  they  never  tire  of  such  sermons.  I  believe 
my  friend  Mr.  Punch  is  as  popular  to-day  as  he  has  been 
any  day  since  his  birth  ;  I  believe  that  Mr.  Dickens's  read- 
ers are  even  more  numerous  than  they  ever  have  been  since 
his  unrivalled  pen  commenced  to  delight  the  world  with  its 
humor.  We  have  among  us  other  literary  parties ;  we  have 
Punch,  as  I  have  said,  preaching  from  his  booth ;  we  have' 
a  Jerrold  party  very  numerous,  and  faithful  to  that  acute 
thinker  and  distinguished  wit ;  and  we  have  also  — it  must 
be  said,  and  it  is  still  to  be  hoped  —  a  Vanity-Fair  party, 
the  author  of  which  work  has  lately  been  described  by  the 
London  Times  newspaper  as  a  writer  of  considerable  parts, 
but  a  dreary  misanthrope,  who  sees  no  good  anywhere,  who 
sees  the  sky  above  him  green,  I  think,  instead  of  blue,  and 
only  miserable  sinners  round  about  him.  So  we  are ;  so  is 
every  writer  and  every  reader  I  ever  heard  of ;  so  was  every 
being  who  ever  trod  this  earth,  save  One.  I  cannot  help 
telling  the  truth  as  I  view  it,  and  describing  what  I  see. 
To  describe  it  otherwise  than  it  seems  to  me  would  be  false- 
hood in  that  calling  in  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to 
place  me ;  treason  to  that  conscience  which  says  that  men 


CHARITY  AND  HUMOR.  459 

are  weak ;  that  truth  must  be  told  ;  that  fault  must  be 
owned ;  that  pardou  must  be  prayed  for  ;  and  that  love 
reigns  supreme  over  all. 

I  look  back  at  the  good  which  of  late  years  the  kind 
English  Humorists  have  done ;  and  if  you  are  pleased  to 
rank  the  present  speaker  among  that  class,  I  own  to  an 
honest  pride  at  thinking  what  benefits  society  has  derived 
from  men  of  our  calling.  That  "  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  which 
Punch  first  published,  and  the  noble,  the  suffering,  the 
melancholy,  the  tender  Hood  sang,  may  surely  rank  as  a 
great  act  of  charit}'  to  the  Avorld,  and  call  from  it  its  thanks 
and  regard  for  its  teacher  and  benefactor.  That  astonish- 
ing poem,  which  you  all  know,  of  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs," 
who  can  read  it  without  tenderness,  without  reverence  to 
Heaven,  charity  to  man,  and  thanks  to  the  beneficent 
genius  which   sang  for  us  nobly  ? 

I  never  saw  the  writer  but  once ;  but  shall  always  be 
glad  to  think  that  some  words  of  mine,  printed  in  a  peri- 
odical of  that  day,  and  in  praise  of  these  amazing  verses 
(which,  strange  to  say,  appeared  almost  unnoticed  at  first 
in  the  magazine  in  which  ^Ir.  Hood  published  them)  —  I 
am  proud,  I  say,  to  think  that  some  Avords  of  appreciation 
of  mine  readied  him  on  his  death-bed,  and  pleased  and 
soothed  him  in  that  hour  of  manful  resignation  and  pain. 

As  for  tlie  charities  of  Mr.  Dickens,  multiplied  kind- 
nesses which  he  has  conferred  upon  us  all ;  upon  our  chil- 
dren; upon  people  educated  and  uneducated;  upon  the 
myriads  here  and  at  home,  who  speak  our  common  tongue ; 
have  not  you,  have  not  I,  all  of  us  reason  to  be  thankful  to 
this  kind  friend,  who  soothed  and  charmed  so  many  hours, 
brought  pleasure  and  sweet  laughter  to  so  many  homes  ; 
made  such  multitudes  of  children  happy;  endowed  us  with 
such  a  sweet  store  of  gracious  thoughts,  fair  fancies,  soft 
sympathies,  hearty  enjoyments?  There  are  creations  of 
Mr.  Dickens's  which  seem  to  me  to  rank  as  personal  bene- 
fits ;  figures  so  delightful,  that  one  feels  happier  and  better 
for  knowing  them,  as  one  does  for  being  brought  into  the 
society  of  very  good  men  and  women.  The  atmosphere  in 
which  these  people  live  is  wholesome  to  breathe  in  ;  you 
feel  that  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  them  is  a  personal  kind- 
ness ;  you  come  away  better  for  your  contact  with  them ; 
your  hands  seem  cleaner  from  having  the  privilege  of  shak- 
ing theirs.  Was  there  ever  a  better  charity  sermon  preached 
in  the  world  than  Dickens's  ''  Christmas  Carol "  ?     I  believe 


460  LECTURE. 

it  occasioned  immense  hospitality  throughout  England ;  was 
the  means  of  lighting  up  hundreds  of  kind  fires  at  Christ- 
mas-time ;  caused  a  wonderful  outpouring  of  Christmas  good 
feeling ;  of  Christmas  punch-brewing ;  an  awful  slaughter 
of  Christmas  turkeys,  and  roasting  and  basting  of  Christ- 
mas beef.  As  for  this  man's  love  of  children,  that  amiable 
organ  at  the  back  of  his  honest  head  must  be  perfectly 
monstrous.  All  children  ought  to  love  him.  I  know  two 
that  do,  and  read  his  books  ten  times  for  once  that  they 
peruse  the  dismal  preachments  of  their  father.  I  know  one 
who,  when  she  is  happy,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  ;  "  when 
she  is  unhappy,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  ;  "  when  she  is 
tired,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  ; "  when  she  is  in  bed, 
reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby ; "  when  she  has  nothing  to  do, 
reads  "Nicholas  Nickleby ;  "  and  when  she  has  finished  the 
book,  reads  "  Nicholas  Nickleby  "  over  again.  This  candid 
young  critic,  at  ten  years  of  age,  said,  "I  like  Mr.  Dickens's 
books  much  better  than  your  books,  papa ;  '*  and  frequently 
expressed  her  desire  that  the  latter  author  should  write  a 
book  like  one  of  Mr.  Dickens's  books.  Who  can  ?  Every 
man  must  say  his  own  thoughts  in  his  own  voice,  in  his 
own  way  ;  lucky  is  he  who  has  such  a  charming  gift  of 
nature  as  this,  which  brings  all  the  children  in  the  world 
trooping  to  him,  and  being  fond  of  him. 

I  remember,  when  that  famous  "Nicholas  Nickleby'' 
came  out,  seeing  a  letter  from  a  pedagogue  in  the  North  of 
England,  which,  dismal  as  it  was,  was  immensely  comical. 
"Mr.  Dickens's  ill-advised  publication,"  wrote  the  poor 
schoolmaster,  "  has  passed  like  a  whirlwind  over  the  schools 
of  the  North."  Dotheboys  Hall  was  a  cheap  school.  He 
was  a  proprietor  of  a  cheap  school ;  there  were  many  such 
establishments  in  the  northern  counties.  Parents  were 
ashamed  that  never  were  ashamed  before  until  the  kind 
satirist  laughed  at  them  ;  relatives  were  frightened ;  scores 
of  little  scholars  were  taken  away ;  poor  schoolmasters  had  to 
shut  their  shops  up ;  every  pedagogue  was  voted  a  Squeers, 
and  many  suffered,  no  doubt  unjustly;  but  afterwards 
schoolboys'  backs  were  not  so  much  caned;  schoolboys' 
meat  was  less  tough  and  more  plentiful ;  and  schoolboys' 
milk  was  not  so  sky-blue.  What  a  kind  light  of  benevo- 
lence it  is  that  plays  round  Crummies  and  the  Phenomenon, 
and  all  those  poor  theatre  people  in  that  charming  book ! 
AVhat  a  humor !  and  what  a  good  humor !  I  coincide 
with  the  youthful  critic,  whose  opinion  has  just  been  men- 


CHARITY  AND  HUMOR.  461 

tionecl,  and  own  to  a  family  admiration  for  "Nicholas 
Nickleby." 

One  might  go  on,  though  the  task  would  be  endless  and 
needless,  chronicling  the  names  of  kind  folk  wdth  whom 
this  kind  genius  has  made  us  familiar.  Who  does  not  love 
the  ^Marchioness,  and  Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  ?  Who  does 
not  sympathize,  not  only  with  Oliver  Twist,  but  his  admi- 
rable young  friend  the  Artful  Dodger  ?  W^ho  has  not  the 
inestimable  advantage  of  possessing  a  Mrs.  Nickleby  in  his 
own  family  ?  Who  does  not  bless  Sairey  Gamp  and  won- 
der at  Mrs.  Harris  ?  Who  does  not  venerate  the  chief  of 
that  illustrious  family  who,  being  stricken  by  misfortune, 
wisely  and  greatly  turned  his  attention  to  "  coals,"'  the  ac- 
complished, the  Epicurean,  the  dirty,  the  delightful  Mi- 
cawber  ? 

I  may  quarrel  with  ]\Ir.  Dickens's  art  a  thousand  and  a 
thousand  times,  I  delight  and  wonder  at  his  genius ;  I  rec- 
ognize in  it  —  I  speak  with  awe  and  reverence — a  commis- 
sion from  that  Divine  Beneficence,  whose  blessed  task  we 
know  it  will  one  day  be  to  wipe  every  tear  from  every  eye. 
Thankfully  I  take  my  share  of  the  feast  of  love  and  kind- 
ness which  this  gentle,  and  generous,  and  charitable  soul 
has  contributed  to  the  happiness  of  the  world.  I  take  and 
enjoy  my  share,  and  say  a  Benediction  for  the  meal. 


PUBLIC   SPEECHES. 


LITERATURE   versus   POLITICS. 

1848. 

If  the  approbation  which  1113^  profession  receives  is  such 
as  Mr.  Aclolphus  is  pleased  to  say  it  has  been  (he  had  just 
been  speaking  of  the  very  high  importance  of  this  branch 
of  literature,  and  of  Mr.  Thackeray  as  one  of  its  most  dis- 
tinguished ornaments),  I  can  only  say  that  we  are  nearly 
as  happy  in  this  country  as  our  brother  literary  men  are  in 
foreign  countries  ;  and  that  we  have  all  but  arrived  at  the 
state  of  dethroning  you  all.  I  don't  wish  that  this  catas- 
trophe should  be  brought  about  for  the  sake  of  personal 
quiet ;  for  one,  I  am  desirous  to  read  my  books,  write  my 
articles,  and  get  my  money.  I  don't  wish  that  that  should 
take  place ;  but  if  I  survey  mankind,  not  "  from  China  to 
Peru,"  but  over  the  map  of  Europe,  with  that  cursory 
glance  which  novel-writers  can  afford  to  take,  I  see  nothing 
but  literary  men  who  seem  to  be  superintending  the  affairs 
of  the  Continent,  and  only  our  happy  island  which  is  ex- 
empt from  the  literary  despotism.  Look  to  Italy,  towards 
the  boot  of  which  I  turn  my  eyes,  and  first,  I  find  that  a 
great  number  of  novelists  and  literary  men  are  bouleversing 
the  country  from  toe  to  heel,  turning  about  Naples,  and 
kicking  Rome  here  and  there,  and  causing  a  sudden  onward 
impetus  of  the  monarchy  of  the  great  Carlo  Alberto  him- 
self. If  I  go  to  France,  I  find  that  men,  and  more  particu- 
larly men  of  my  own  prof ession  and  Mr.  James's  profession, 
are  governing  the  country ;  I  find  that  writers  of  fiction 
and  authors  in  general  are  ruling  over  the  destinies  of  the 
empire ;  that  Pegasus  is,  as  it  were,  the  charger  of  the  first 
citizen  of  the  Republic.  But  arriving  at  my  own  country. 
I  beseech  you  to  remember  that  there  was  a  time,  a  little 
time  ago,  on  the  "  10th  of  April  last,"  when  a  great  novel- 
ist —  a    great   member  of   my  profession  —  was   standing 

462 


REALITY   OF    THE   NOVELIST'S    CREATION.     463 

upon  Kenniugton  Common  in  the  van  of  liberty,  prepared 
to  assume  any  responsibility,  to  take  upon  himself  any 
direction  of  government,  to  decorate  himself  with  the 
tricolor  sash,  or  the  Eobespierre  waistcoat ;  and  but  for  the 
timely,  and  I  may  say  ''special"  interposition  of  many  who 
are  here  present,  you  might  have  been  at  present  com- 
manded by  a  president  of  a  literary  republic,  instead  of  by 
our  present  sovereign.  I  doubt  whether  any  presidents  of 
any  literary  republics  would  contribute  as  much  to  the 
funds  of  this  society.  I  don't  believe  that  the  country  as 
yeb  requires  so  much  of  our  literary  men;  but  in  the 
mean  while,  I  su})i)ose  it  must  be  the  task  and  endeavor  of 
all  us  light  practitioners  of  literature  to  do  our  best,  to  say 
our  little  say  in  the  honestest  way  we  can,  to  tell  the  truth 
as  heartily  and  as  simply  as  we  are  able  to  tell  it,  to  expose 
the  humbug,  and  to  support  the  honest  man. 


THE  REALITY  OF  THE   NOVELIST'S    CREATION. 

1849. 

I  SUPPOSE,  Mr.  Chairman,  years  ago  when  you  had  a  duty 
to  perform,  you  did  not  think  much  about,  or  look  to,  what 
men  of  genius  and  men  of  eloquence  in  England  might  say 
of  you ;  but  you  went  and  did  your  best  with  all  your 
power,  and  what  was  the  result  ?  You  determined  to  do 
your  best  on  the  next  occasion.  I  believ^e  that  is  the  phil- 
osophy of  what  I  have  been  doing  in  the  course  of  my  life ; 
I  don't  know  whether  it  has  tended  to  fame  or  to  laughter, 
or  to  seriousness ;  but  I  have  tried  to  say  the  truth,  and, 
as  far  as  I  know,  I  have  tried  to  describe  what  I  saw 
before  me,  as  well  as  I  best  might,  and  to  like  my  neighbor 
as  well  as  my  neighbor  would  let  me  like  him.  All  the 
rest  of  the  speech  which  I  had  prepared  has  fled  into  thin 
air ;  the  only  part  of  it  which  I  remember  was  an  apology 
for,  or  rather,  an  encomium  of,  the  profession  of  us  noveh 
ists,  which,  I  am  bound  to  say,  ought  to  rank  with  the 
very  greatest  literary  occupations.  Why  should  historians 
take  precedence  of  us  ?  Our  personages  are  as  real  as 
theirs.  For  instance,  I  maintain  that  our  friends  Parson 
Adams  and  Dr.  Primrose  are  characters  as  authentic  as  Dr. 
Sacheverell,  or  Dr.  Warburton,  or  any  reverend  personage 
of  their  times.  Gil  Bias  is  quite  as  real  and  as  good  a  man 
as  the  Duke  of  Lerma,  and  I  believe,  a  great  deal  more  so. 


464  PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 

I  was  thinking,  too,  that  Don  Quixote  was  to  ni}-  mind  as 
real  a  man  as  Don  John  or  the  Duke  of  Alva ;  and  then  I 
was  turning  to  the  history  of  a  gentleman  of  whom  I  am 
particularly  fond  —  a  school-fellow  of  mine  before  Dr.  Rus- 
sell's time.  I  was  turning  to  the  life  and  history  of  one 
with  whom  we  are  all  acquainted,  and  that  is  one  Mr. 
Joseph  Addison,  who,  I  remember,  was  made  Under-Secre- 
tary of  State  at  one  period  of  his  life,  under  another  celebrated 
man,  Sir  Charles  Hedges,  I  think  it  was,  but  it  is  now  so 
long  ago,  I  am  not  sure ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Addison 
was  much  more  proud  of  his  connection  with  Sir  Charles 
Hedges,  and  his  place  in  Downing  Street,  and  his  red  box, 
and  his  quarter's  salary,  punctually  and  regularly  paid ;  I 
dare  say  he  was  much  more  proud  of  these,  than  of  any 
literary  honor  which  he  received,  such  as  being  the  author 
of  the  "  Tour  of  Italy,"  and  the  "  Campaign."  But  after 
all,  though  he  was  indubitably  connected  with  Sir  Charles 
Hedges,  there  was  another  knight  with  whom  he  was  much 
more  connected,  and  that  was  a  certain  Sir  Eoger  de  Cov- 
erley,  whom  we  have  always  loved,  and  believed  in  a  thou- 
sand times  better  than  a  thousand  Sir  Charles  Hedges. 
And  as  I  look  round  at  this  my  table,  gentlemen,  I  cannot 
but  perceive  that  the  materials  for  my  favorite  romances 
are  never  likely  to  be  wanting  to  future  authors.  I  don't 
know  that  anything  I  have  written  has  been  generally 
romantic ;  but  if  I  were  disposed  to  write  a  romance,  I 
think  I  should  like  to  try  an  Indian  tale,  and  I  should  take 
for  the  heroes  of  it,  or  for  some  of  the  heroes  of  it  —  I 
would  take  the  noble  lord  whom  I  see  opposite  to  me  (Lord 
Napier)  with  the  Sutlej  flowing  before  him,  and  the  enemy 
in  his  front,  and  himself  riding  before  the  British  army, 
with  his  little  son  Arthur  and  his  son  Charles  by  his  side. 
I  am  sure,  in  all  the  regions  of  romance,  I  could  find  noth- 
ing more  noble  and  affecting  than  that  story,  and  I  hope 
some  of  these  days,  some  more  able  novelist  will  under- 
take it. 

AUTHORS   AND  THEIR   PATRONS. 

1851. 

Literary  men  are  not  by  any  means,  at  this  present 
time,  that  most  unfortunate  and  most  degraded  set  of  peo- 
ple whom  they  are  sometimes  represented  to  be.  If  foreign 
gentlemen  should  by  any  chance  go  to  see  "  The  Rivals  " 


AUTHORS  AND   THEIR   PATRONS.  465 

represented  at  one  of  our  theatres,  they  will  see  Captain 
Absolute  and  Miss  Lydia  Languish  making  love  to  one 
another,  and  conversing,  if  not  in  the  custom  of  our  present 
day,  or  such  as  gentlemen  and  ladies  are  accustomed  to  use, 
at  any  rate  in  something  near  it ;  whereas,  when  the  old 
father  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  comes  in,  nothing  will  con- 
tent the  stage  but  that  he  should  appear  with  red  heels, 
large  buckles,  and  an  immense  Ramilies  wig.  This  is  the 
stage  tradition :  they  won't  believe  in  an  old  man,  unless 
he  appears  in  this  dress,  and  with  this  wig ;  nor  in  an  old 
lady,  unless  she  comes  forward  in  a  quilted  petticoat  and 
high-heeled  shoes ;  nor  in  Hamlet's  gravedigger,  unless  he 
wears  some  four  and  twenty  waistcoats  ;  and  so  on.  In  my 
trade,  in  my  especial  branch  of  literature,  the  same  tradition 
exists;  and  certain  persons  are  constantly  apt  to  bring  for- 
ward, or  to  believe  in  the  existence  at  this  moment,  of  the  mis- 
erable old  literary  hack  of  the  time  of  George  the  Second,  and 
bring  him  before  us  as  the  literary  man  of  this  day.  I  say  that 
that  disrei)utable  old  phantom  ought  to  be  hissed  out  of 
societ}-.  I  don't  believe  in  the  literary  man  being  obliged 
to  resort  to  ignoble  artifices  and  mean  flatteries,  to  get 
places  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  and  to  enter  into  society 
upon  sufferance.  I  don't  believe  in  the  patrons  of  this 
present  day,  except  such  i»atrons  as  I  am  happ}-  to  have  in 
you,  and  as  any  honest  man  might  be  proud  to  have,  and 
shake  by  the  hand  and  be  sliaken  by  the  hand  by.  There- 
fore I  propose  from  this  day  forward,  that  the  oppressed 
literary  man  should  disappear  from  among  us.  The  times 
are  altered ;  the  people  don't  exist ;  "  the  patron  and  the 
jail,"  praise  God,  are  vanished  from  out  our  institutions. 
It  may  be  possible  that  the  eminent  Mr.  Edmund  Curl 
stood  in  the  pillory  in  tlie  time  of  Queen  Anne,  who,  thank 
God,  is  dead;  it  may  be,  that  in  the  reign  of  another 
celebrated  monarch  of  these  realms.  Queen  Elizabeth, 
authors  who  abused  the  persons  of  honors  would  have 
their  arms  cut  off  on  the  first  offence,  and  be  hanged  on  the 
second.  Gentlemen,  what  would  be  the  position  of  my 
august  friend  and  patron,  Mr.  Punch,  if  that  were  now  the 
case  ?  Where  would  be  his  hands,  and  his  neck,  and  his 
ears,  and  his  bowels  ?  He  would  be  disembowelled,  and 
his  members  cast  about  the  land.  We  don't  want  patrons, 
we  Avant  friends  ;  and,  I  thank  God,  we  have  them.  And 
as  for  any  idea  that  our  calling  is  despised  by  the  world,  I 
do  for  my  part  protest  against  and  deny  the  whole  state- 


466  PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 

ment.  T  liave  been  in  all  sorts  of  society  iu  this  world, 
and  I  never  have  been  despised  that  I  know  of.  I  don't 
believe  there  has  been  a  literary  man  of  the  slightest  merit, 
or  of  the  slightest  mark,  who  did  not  greatly  advance  him- 
self by  his  literary  labors.  I  see  along  this  august  table 
gentlemen  whom  I  have  had  the  honor  of  shaking  by  the 
hand,  and  gentlemen  whom  I  should  never  have  called  my 
friends,  but  for  the  humble  literary  labors  I  have  been  en- 
gaged in.  And,  therefore,  I  say,  don't  let  us  be  pitied  any 
more.  As  for  pity  being  employed  upon  authors,  especially 
in  my  branch  of  the  profession,  if  you  will  but  look  at  the 
novelists  of  the  present  day,  I  think  you  will  see  it  is  alto- 
gether out  of  the  question  to  pity  them.  We  will  take  in 
the  first  place,  if  you  please,  a  great  novelist  who  is  the 
head  of  a  great  party  in  a  great  assembly  in  this  country. 
When  this  celebrated  man  went  into  his  county  to  be  pro- 
posed to  represent  it,  and  he  was  asked  on  what  interest 
he  stood,  he  nobly  said,  'Mie  stood  on  his  head."  And 
who  can  question  the  gallantry  and  brilliancy  of  that  emi- 
nent crest  of  his,  and  what  man  will  deny  the  great  merit 
of  Mr.  Disraeli  ?  Take  next  another  novelist,  who  writes 
from  his  ancestral  hall,  and  addresses  John  Bull  in  letters 
on  matters  of  politics,  and  John  Bull  buys  eight  editions 
of  those  letters.  Is  not  this  a  prospect  for  a  novelist  ? 
There  is  a  third,  who  is  employed  upon  this  very  evening, 
heart  and  hand,  heart  and  voice,  I  may  say,  on  a  work  of 
charity.  And  what  is  the  consequence  ?  The  Queen  of 
the  realm,  the  greatest  nobles  of  the  empire,  all  the  great 
of  the  world,  will  assemble  to  see  him  and  do  him  honor. 
I  say,  therefore,  don't  let  us  have  pity.  I  don't  want  it 
till  I  really  do  want  it.  Of  course  it  is  impossible  for  us 
to  settle  the  mere  prices  by  which  the  works  of  those  who 
amuse  the  public  are  to  be  paid.  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that  Signor  Twankeydillo,  of  the  Italian  OjDera,  and  Made- 
moiselle Petitpas,  of  the  Haymarket,  will  get  a  great  deal 
more  money  in  a  week,  for  the  skilful  exercise  of  their 
chest  and  toes,  than  I,  or  you,  or  any  gentleman,  shall 
be  able  to  get  by  our  brains  and  by  weeks  of  hard  labor. 
We  cannot  help  these  differences  in  payment,  we  know 
there  must  be  high  and  low  payments  in  our  trade  as  in 
all  trades  ;  that  there  must  be  gluts  of  the  market,  and 
over-production,  that' there  must  be  successful  machinery, 
and  rivals,  and  brilliant  importations  from  foreign  coun- 
tries ;  that  there  must  be  hands  out  of  employ,  and  tribula- 


THE  NOVELIST'S  FUTURE   LABORS.  467 

tion  of  workmen.  But  these  ill  winds  which  afflict  us 
blow  fortunes  to  our  successors.  These  are  natural  evils. 
It  is  the  progress  of  the  world,  rather  than  any  evil  which 
we  can  remedy,  and  that  is  why  I  say  this  *^society  acts 
most  wisely  and  justly  in  endeavoring  to  remedy,  not  the 
chronic  distress,  but  the  temporary  evil ;  that  it  finds  a 
man  at  the  moment  of  the  pinch  of  necessity,  helps  him  a 
little,  and  gives  him  a  ^'  God-speed,"  and  sends  him  on  his 
way.  For  my  own  part  I  have  felt  that  necessity,  and 
bent  under  that  calamity  ;  and  it  is  because  I  have  found 
friends  who  have  nobly,  Avith  God's  blessing,  helped  me  at 
that  moment  of  distress,  that  I  feel  deeply  interested  in 
the  ends  of  a  society  which  has  for  its  object  to  help  my 
brethren  in  similar  need. 


THE   NOVELIST'S   FUTUKE   LABOKS. 

1852. 

We,  from  this  end  of  the  table  [on  occasion  of  the  Royal 
Literary  Fund  Dinner],  speak  humbly  and  from  afar.  We 
are  the  usefuls  of  the  company,  who  over  and  over  again 
joerform  our  little  part,  deliver  our  little  messages,  and  then 
sit  down ;  whereas,  you,  yonder,  are  the  great  stars  of  the 
evening ;  you  are  collected  with  much  care,  and  skill,  and 
ingenuity,  b}'  the  manager  of  this  benefit  performance  ;  you 
perform  ^lacbeth  and  Hamlet,  we  are  the  Rosencrantzes 
and  Guildensterns  ;  we  are  the  Banquos, — as  I  know  a 
Banquo  who  has  shaken  his  gory  old  wig  at  Drury  Lane,  at 
a  dozen  ]\Iacbeths.  We  resemble  the  individual  in  plush, 
whom  gentlemen  may  have  seen  at  the  opera,  who  comes 
forward  and  demurely  waters  the  stage,  to  the  applause  of 
the  audience  —  nevermind  who  is  the  great  Taglioni,  or  the 
Lind,  or  the  Wagner,  who  is  to  receive  all  the  glory.  For 
my  part,  I  am  happy  to  fulfil  that  humble  office,  and  to 
make  my  little  spurt,  and  to  retire,  and  leave  the  place  for 
a  greater  and  more  able  performer.  How  like  British 
charity  is  to  British  valor  !  It  always  must  be  well  fed 
before  it  comes  into  action  !  We  see  before  us  a  ceremony 
of  this  sort,  which  Britons  always  undergo  with  pleasure. 
There  is  no  tax  which  the  Briton  pays  so  cheerfully  as  the 
dinner-tax.  Every  man  here,  I  have  no  doubt,  who  is  a 
little  acquainted  with  the  world,  must  have  received,  in 
the  course  of  the  last  month,  a  basketful  of  tickets,  invit- 


468  PUBLIC  SPEECHES, 

ing  him  to  meet  in  this  place,  for  some  purpose  or  other. 
We  have  all  rapped  upon  this  table,  either  admiring  the 
speaker  for  his  eloquence,  or,  at  any  rate,  applauding  him 
when  he  sits  down.  We  all  of  us  know  —  we  have  had  it  a 
hundred  times  —  the  celebrated  flavor  of  the  old  Free- 
masons' mock-turtle,  and  the  celebrated  Freemasons' 
sherry ;  and  if  I  seem  to  laugh  at  the  usage,  the  honest, 
good  old  English  usage,  of  eating  and  drinking,  which 
brings  us  all  together,  for  all  sorts  of  good  purposes  — 
do  not  suppose  that  I  laugh  at  it  any  more  than  I  would 
at  good  old  honest  John  Bull,  who  has  under  his  good, 
huge,  boisterous  exterior,  a  great  deal  of  kindness  and 
goodness  at  the  heart  of  him.  Our  festival  may  be  com- 
pared with  such  a  person  ;  men  meet  here  and  shake  hands, 
kind  hearts  grow  kinder  over  the  table,  and  a  silent 
almoner  issues  forth  from  it,  the  festival  over,  and  gratifies 
poor  people,  and  relieves  the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  which 
would  never  be  relieved  but  for  your  kindness.  So  that 
there  is  a  grace  that  follows  after  your  meat  and  sanctifies 
it.  We  have  heard  the  historians  and  their  calling  worthily 
exalted  just  now ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  calling  will 
be  the  very  longest  and  the  last  of  those  of  all  the  literary 
gentlemen  I  see  before  me.  Long  after  the  present  genera- 
tion is  dead  —  of  readers  and  of  authors  of  books  —  there 
must  be  kindness  -and  generosity,  and  folly  and  fidelity, 
and  love  and  heroism,  and  humbug  m  the  world ;  and,  as 
long  as  they  last,  my  successors,  or  the  successors  of  the 
novelists  who  come  long  after  us,  will  have  plenty  to  do, 
and  plenty  of  subjects  to  write  upon.  There  may  chance  to 
be  a  time  when  wars  will  be  over,  and  the  "  decisive  bat- 
tles "  of  the  world  will  not  need  a  historian.  There  may 
arrive  a  time  when  the  Court  of  Chancery  itself  will  be  ex- 
tinguished; and,  as  perhaps  your  Lordship  is  aware,  there 
is  a  certain  author  of  a  certain  work  called  "  Bleak  House," 
who,  for  the  past  three  months,  has  been  assaulting  the 
Court  of  Chancery  in  a  manner  that  I  cannot  conceive  that 
ancient  institution  will  survive.  There  may  be  a  time 
when  the  Court  of  Chancery  will  cease  to  exist,  and  when 
the  historian  of  the  "  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors  "  will 
have  no  calling.  I  have  often  speculated  upon  what  the 
successors  of  the  novelists  in  future  ages  may  have  to  do ; 
and  I  have  fancied  them  occupied  with  the  times  and  peo- 
ple of  our  own  age.  If  I  could  fancy  a  man  so  occupied 
hereafter,  and  busied  we  will  say  with  a  heroic  story,  I 


ON  LEAVING  ENGLAND   FOR   AMERICA.      469 

would  take  the  story  which  I  heard  hinted  at  the  other 
night  by  the  honored,  the  oklest,  the  bravest  and  greatest 
man  in  this  country  —  I  woukl  take  the  great  and  glorious 
action  of  Cape  Danger,  when,  striking  to  the  powers  above 
alone,  the  Birkenhead  went  down !  When,  w^itli  heroic 
courage  and  endurance,  the  men  remained  on  the  decks, 
and  the  women  and  children  were  allowed  to  go  away  safe, 
as  the  people  cheered  them,  and  died  doing  their  duty  !  I 
know  of  no  victory  so  sublime  in  any  annals  of  the  feats  of 
English  valor;  —  I  know  of  no  story  that  could  inspire  a 
great  author  or  novelist  better  than  that.  Or,  suppose  we 
should  take  the  story  of  an  individual  of  the  present  day, 
whose  name  has  been  already  mentioned  ;  we  might  have  a 
literary  hero,  not  less  literary  than  ]Mr.  David  Copperfield, 
or  ^Ir.  Arthur  Pendennis,  who  is  defunct :  we  might  have  a 
literary  hero  who,  at  twenty  years  of  age,  astonished  the 
world  with  his  brilliant  story  of  "Vivian  Grey,"  who,  in  a 
little  time  afterwards,  and  still  in  the  youthful  period  of 
his  life,  amazed  and  delighted  the  public  with  ''  The  Won- 
drous Tale  of  Alroy ;  "  who,  presently  following  up  the 
course  of  his  career,  and  the  development  of  his  philosophi- 
cal culture,  explained  to  a  breathless  and  listening  world 
the  great  Caucasian  mystery  ;  who,  quitting  literature,  then 
went  into  politics  ;  met,  faced,  and  fought,  and  conquered 
the  great  political  giant,  and  great  orator  of  those  days ; 
who  subsequently  led  thanes  and  earls  to  battle,  and 
caused  reluctant  squires  to  carry  his  lance ;  and  who,  but 
the  other  da}',  went  in  a  gold  coat  to  kiss  the  hand  of  his 
Sovereign,  as  Leader  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  Chan- 
cellor of  Her  ^lajesty's  Exchequer.  What  a  hero  that  will 
be  for  some  future  novelist,  and  what  a  magnificent  climax 
for  the  third  volume  of  his  story. 


OX   LEAVING   ENGLAND   FOR   AMERICA. 

1855. 

I  KNOW  great  numbers  of  us  here  present  have  been  in- 
vited to  a  neighboring  palace,  where  turtle,  champagne,  and 
all  good  things  are  as  plentiful  almost  as  here,  and  where 
there  reigns  a  civic  monarch  with  a  splendid  court  of 
officers,  etc.  The  sort  of  greeting  thaft  I  had  myself  to-day 
—  this  splendor,  etc.  —  the  bevy  in  the  ante-room  —  have 
filled  my  bosom  with  an  elation  with  which  no  doubt  Sir 


470  PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 

Francis  Graham  Moon's  tlirobs.  I  am  surrounded  by 
respectful  friends,  etc.,  —  and  I  feel  myself  like  a  Lord 
Mayor.  To  his  Lordship's  delight  and  magnificence  there 
is  a  drawback.  In  the  fountain  of  his  i)leasure  there  surges 
a  bitter.  He  is  thinking  about  the  ninth  of  November,  and 
I  about  the  thirteenth  of  October. 

Some  years  since,  when  I  was  younger  and  used  to  fre- 
quent jolly  assemblies,  I  wrote  a  Bacchanalian  song,  to  be 
chanted  after  dinner,  etc.  I  wish  some  one  would  sing 
that  song  now  to  the  tune  of  the  '•  Dead  March  in  Saul," 
etc.,  not  for  me  —  I  am  miserable  enough,  —  but  for  you, 
who  seem  in  a  great  deal  too  good  spirits.  I  tell  you  I  am 
not  —  all  the  drink  in  Mr.  Bathe's  cellar  won't  make  me. 
There  may  be  sherry  there  five  hundred  years  old  :  Colum- 
bus may  have  taken  it  out  from  Cadiz  with  him  when  he 
went  to  discover  America :  and  it  won't  make  me  jolly,  etc. ; 
and  yet,  entirely  unsatisfactory  as  this  feast  is  to  me,  I 
should  like  some  more.  Why  can't  you  give  me  some 
more  ?  I  don't  care  about  them  costing  two  guineas  a 
head.  It  is  not  the  turtle  I  value.  Let  us  go  to  Simpson's 
fish  ordinary,  or  to  Bertolini's,  or  John  O'Groat's,  etc.,  —  I 
don't  want  to  go  away  —  I  cling  round  the  mahogany  tree. 

In  the  course  of  my  profound  and  extensive  reading,  I 
have  found  it  is  the  habit  of  the  English  nation  to  give 
dinners  to  the  unfortunate.  I  have  been  living  lately  with 
some  worthy  singular  fellows  150  or  160  years  old.  I  find 
that  upon  certain  occasions  the  greatest  attention  was 
always  paid  them.  They  might  call  for  anything  they 
liked  for  dinner.  My  friend  Simon  Eraser,  Lord  Lovat, 
about  109  years  since,  I  think,  partook  very  cheerfully  of 
minced  veal  and  sack  before  he  was  going  on  his  journey. 
—  Lord  Ferrers  (Rice).  I  could  tell  you  a  dozen  jolly 
stories  about  feasts  of  this  sort.  I  remember  a  particularly 
jolly  one  at  which  I  was  present,  and  which  took  place  at 
least  900  years  ago.  My  friend,  Mr.  Macready,  gave  it  at 
Forres  Castle,  North  Britain,  Covent  Garden.  That  was  a 
magnificent  affair  indeed.  The  tables  were  piled  with  most 
splendid  fruits  ;  gorgeous  dish-covers  glittered  in  endless 
perspective;  —  Macbeth  —  Macready,  I  mean,  —  taking  up 
a  huge  gold  beaker,  shining  with  enormous  gems  that  must 
have  been  worth  many  hundred  millions  of  mone}^,  filled  it 
out  of  a  gold  six-gallon  jug,  and  drank  courteously  to  the 
general  health  of  the  whole  table.  Why  did  he  put  it 
down  ?     What  made  him,  in  the  midst  of  that  jolly  party, 


COMMERCE   AXD  LITERATURE.  471 

appear  so  haggard  and  melancholy  ?  It  was  because  he 
saw  before  him  the  ghost  of  John  Cooper,  with  chalked 
face,  and  an  immense  streak  of  vermilion  painted  across 
liis  throat !  No  wonder  he  was  disturbed.  In  like  manner 
I  have  before  me  at  this  minute  the  horrid  figure  of  a 
steward,  with  a  basin  perhaps,  or  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
water,  which  he  will  press  me  to  drink  and  which  I  shall 
try  and  swallow,  and  which  won't  make  me  any  better  — 
I  know  it  won't. 

Then  there's  the  dinner,  which  we  all  of  us  must  remem- 
ber in  our  schoolboy  days,  and  which  took  place  twice  or 
thrice  a  year  at  home,  on  the  day  before  Dr.  Birch  expected 
his  young  friends  to  re-assemble  at  his  academy,  Rodwell 
Regis.  Don't  you  remember  how  the  morning  was  spent  ? 
—  how  you  went  about  taking  leave  of  the  garden,  and  the 
old  mare  and  foal,  and  the  i)addock,  and  the  pointers  in  the 
kennel  ?  —  and  how  j'our  little  sister  wistfully  kept  at  your 
side  all  day  ?  and  how  you  went  and  looked  at  the  con- 
founded trunk  which  old  iNIartha  was  packing  with  the  new 
shirts,  and  tliat  heavy  cake  packed  up  in  the  play -box  ?  and 
how  kind  "  the  governor  "  was  all  day ;  and  how  at  dinner 
he  said  "  Jack,  or  Tom,  pass  the  bottle,"  in  a  ver}^  cheery 
voice  :  and  how  your  mother  had  got  the  dishes  she  knew 
you  liked  best,  and  how  you  had  the  wing  instead  of  the 
leg,  which  used  to  be  your  ordinary  share  ?  and  how  that 
dear,  delightful,  liot  raspberry  roly-poly  pudding,  good  as 
it  was,  and  fondly  beloved  by  you,  yet  somehow  had  the 
effect  of  the  notorious  school  stickjaw  and  choked  you  and 
stuck  in  your  throat  ?  and  how  the  gig  came,  and  then  how 
you  heard  the  whirl  of  mail-coach  wheels  and  the  tooting 
of  the  guard's  horn,  as,  with  an  odious  punctuality,  the 
mail  and  the  four  horses  came  galloping  over  the  hill. 
Shake  hands  !  good-by.  God  bless  everybody  !  Don't  cry, 
sister!  and  to-morrow  we  begin  with  Dr.  Birch  and  six 
months  at  Rodwell  Regis. 

But  after  six  months  came  the  holidays  again,  etc. 


COMMERCE   AXD   LITERATURE. 

1857. 

I  FEEL  it  needful  for  me  to  be  particularly  cautious  when- 
ever I  come  to  any  meeting  in  the  city  which  has  to  deal 
with  money  and   monetary  affairs.     It  is  seldom   that  I 


472  PUBLIC  SPEECHES. 

appear  at  all  in  these  regions,  unless,  indeed,  it  be  occa- 
sionally to  pay  a  pleasing  visit  to  Messrs.  Bradbury  and 
Evans,  iu  Bouverie  Street,  or  to  Messrs.  Smith  and  Co.,  of 
Cornhill.  But  I  read  my  paper  like  every  good  Briton,  and 
from  that  I  gather  a  lesson  of  profound  caution  in  speaking 
to  mercantile  men  on  subjects  of  this  kind.  Supposing, 
for  instance,  that  I  have  shares  in  the  Bundelcund  Banking 
Company,  or  in  the  Royal  British  Diddlesex  Bank :  I  come 
down  to  a  meeting  of  the  shareholders,  and  hear  an  honored 
treasurer  and  an  admirable  president  make  the  most  flourish- 
ing reports  of  the  state  of  our  concern,  showing  to  us  enor- 
mous dividends  accompanied  with  the  most  elegant  bonuses ; 
and  proving  to  us  that  our  funds  are  invested  in  the  most 
secure  way  at  Bogleywallak,  Bundelcund,  and  Branksea 
Castle.  I  go  awa}^  delighted  at  the  happy  prospect  before 
my  wife  and  family,  feeling  perfect  confidence  that  those 
innocent  beings  will  be  comfortable  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 
What,  then,  is  my  horror,  when,  in  one  brief  fortnight  after, 
instead  of  those  enormous  dividends  and  elegant  bonuses,  I 
am  served  with  a  notice  to  pay  up  a  most  prodigious  sum  ; 
when  I  find  that  our  estates  at  Bundelcund  and  Bogleywallak 
have  been  ravaged  by  the  Bengal  tiger ;  that  the  island  of 
Branksea  is  under  water ;  that  our  respected  president  is 
obliged  to  go  to  Spain  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  and  our 
eloquent  treasurer  cannot  abide  the  London  fog.  You  see  I 
must  be  a  little  careful.  But,  granted  that  the  accounts  we 
hear  have  not,  like  our  dinner,  been  subjected  to  an  ingenious 
culinary  process ;  granted  that  you  have  spent,  as  I  read  in 
your  report,  £25,000  in  raising  a  noble  school  and  grounds  ; 
that  you  have  collected  around  you  the  happy  juvenile  faces 
which  I  see  smiling  on  yonder  benches,  to  be  the  objects  of 
your  Christian  kindness ;  granting  all  this  to  be  true,  then, 
gentlemen,  I  am  your  most  humble  servant,  and  no  words 
that  I  can  find  can  express  my  enthusiastic  admiration  for 
what  you  have  done.  I  sincerely  wish,  on  behalf  of  my 
own  class,  the  literary  profession,  that  we  could  boast  of 
anything  as  good.  I  wish  that  we  had  an  institution  to 
which  we  could  confide  our  children,  instead  of  having  to 
send  them  about  to  schools  as  we  do,  at  an  awful  cost. 
When  the  respected  Mr.  Squeers  of  Do-the-boys  Hall 
announces  that  he  proposes  to  take  a  limited  number  of 
pupils  —  I  should  rather  say  a  number  of  very  limited 
pupils — it  is  not  because  he  is  in  love  with  the  little  darl- 
ings that  he  does  it,  but  because  he  designs  to  extract  a  profit 


COMMERCE  AND  LITERATURE.  473 

out  of  them.  It  always  pains  me  to  think  of  the  profits 
to  be  screwed  out  of  the  bellies  of  the  poor  little  innocents. 
Why  have  we  not,  as  men  of  letters,  some  such  association, 
as  that  which  you  have  got  up  ?  I  appeal  to  my  literary 
brethren,  if  any  of  them  are  present,  whether  we,  the  men 
of  the  line,  cannot  emulate  the  men  of  the  road  ?  A  week 
ago  a  friend  engaged  in  my  own  profession,  making  his 
f  1,000  a  year,  showed  me  his  half-yearly  account  of  his  two 
little  boys  at  school.  These  little  heroes  of  six  and  seven, 
who  are  at  a  very  excellent  school,  where  they  are  well 
provided  for,  came  home  with  a  little  bill  in  their  pocket 
which  amounted  to  the  sum  of  £75  for  the  half-year. 
Now  think  of  this  poor  Paterfamilias  earning  his  moderate 
£1,000  a  3'ear,  out  of  which  he  has  his  life  assurance,  his 
income  tax,  and  his  house  rent  to  pay,  with  three  or  four 
poor  relations  to  support  —  for  doubtless  we  are  all  blessed 
with  those  appendages  —  with  the  heavy  bills  of  his  wife 
and  daughters  for  millinery  and  mantua-making  to  meet, 
especiall}^  at  their  present  enormous  rates  and  sizes.  Think 
of  this  over-burdened  man  having  to  pay  £75  for  one-half 
year's  schooling  of  his  little  boys !  Let  the  gentlemen  of 
the  press,  tlien,  try  to  devise  some  scheme  which  shall 
benefit  them,  as  you  have  undoubtedly  benefited  by  what 
3'ou  have  accomplished  for  yourselves.  We  are  all  travellers 
and  voyagers  who  must  embark  on  life's  ocean ;  and  before 
you  send  your  boys  to  sea  you  teach  them  to  swim,  to  navi- 
gate the  ship,  and  guide  her  into  port.  The  last  time  I 
visited  America,  two  years  ago,  I  sailed  on  board  the  Africa, 
Captain  Harrison.  As  she  was  steaming  out  of  Liverpool 
one  fine  blowy  October  day,  and  was  hardly  over  the  bay, 
when,  animated  by  those  peculiar  sensations  not  uncommon 
to  landsmen  at  the  commencement  of  a  sea  voyage,  I  was 
holding  on  amidships  [a  laugh],  up  comes  a  quick-eyed 
shrewd-looking  little  man,  who  holds  on  to  the  next  rope 
to  me,  and  says,  ''  Mr.  Thackeray,  I  am  the  representative 
of  the  house  of  Appleton  and  Co.,  of  Broadway,  New  York 
—  a  most  liberal  and  enterprising  publishing  firm,  who  will 
be  most  happy  to  do  business  with  you."  I  don't  know  that 
we  then  did  any  business  in  the  line  thus  delicately  hinted 
at,  because  at  that  particular  juncture  we  were  both  of  us 
called,  by  a  heavy  lurch  of  the  ship,  to  a  casting-up  of 
accounts  'of  a  far  less  asfreeable  character. 


LETTERS. 


TO   MACVEY  NAPIER,  Esq. 

[editor    of    the    EDINBURGH    REVIEW.] 

St.  James's  Street,  July  16,  1845. 

My  Dear  Sir,  —  I  am  glad  to  comply  with  your  request 
that  I  should  address  you  personally,  and  thank  you  for  the 
letters  which  you  have  written  to  Mr.  Longman  regarding 
my  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  lieview. 

Eugene  Sue  has  written  a  very  great  number  of  novels, 
beginning  with  maritime  novels  in  the  Satanic  style,  so  to 
speak,  full  of  crime  and  murder  of  every  description.  He 
met  in  his  early  works  with  no  very  great  success.  He 
gave  up  the  indecencies  of  language,  and  astonished  the 
world  with  Mathilde  three  years  since,  which  had  the  siugu- 
iar  quality  among  French  novels  of  containing  no  impro- 
prieties of  expression.  In  my  mind,  it  is  one  of  the  most 
immoral  books  in  the  world.  The  Mysteries  of  Paris  fol- 
lowed with  still  greater  success,  and  the  same  extreme 
cleverness  of  construction,  and  the  same  sham  virtue.  It 
has  been  sold  by  tens  of  thousands  in  London  in  various 
shapes,  in  American  editions,  and  illustrated  English  trans- 
lations. To  go  through  a  course  of  Sue's  writings  would 
require,  I  should  think,  more  than  a  short  article,  and  the 
subject  has  been  much  dealt  with  in  minor  periodicals  here. 
The  Glances  at  Life  is  a  very  kindly  and  agreeable  little 
book  by  a  Cockney  philosopher :  could  it  be  coupled  in  an 
article  with  N.  P.  Willis's  Dashes  at  Life,  which  Messrs. 
Longman  now  advertise  ?  A  pleasant  short  paper  might 
be  written,  T  fancy,  commenting  on  the  humors  of  the  pair. 
Should  the  subject  meet  with  your  approval,  perhaps  you 
will  give  me  notice,  and  state  what  space  the  Revieiv  can 
afford.     Should  you  not  approve,  I  will  look  through  Lady 

474 


TO    WILLIAM  EDMOXnSTOiWE  AYTOUX.     47o 

Hester  Stanhojje,  and  hope  to  be  able  to  treat  it  to  your 
satisfaction.  I  am  bringing  out  a  little  book  about  the 
Mediterranean  myself,  which  I  hope  shortly  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  sending  you. 

Your  very  obedient  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

October  16,  1845. 
My  Dear  Sir,  —  I  have  just  received  and  acknowledge 
with  many  thanks  your  banker's  bill.  From  them  or  from 
you,  I  shall  always  be  delighted  to  receive  communications 
of  this  nature.  From  your  liberal  payment  I  can't  but 
conclude  that  you  reward  me  not  only  for  laboring,  but 
for  being  mutilated  in  your  service.  I  assure  you  I  suffered 
cruelly  by  the  amputation  which  you  were  obliged  to  inflict 
upon  my  poor  dear  paper.  I  mourn  still  —  as  what  father 
can  help  doing  for  his  children  ?  —  for  several  lovely  jokes 
and  promising  facetiae,  which  were  born  and  might  have 
lived  but  for  your  scissors  urged  by  ruthless  necessity.  I 
trust  however  there  are  many  more  which  the  future  may 
bring  forth,  and  wliich  will  meet  with  more  favor  in  your 
eyes.  I  quite  agree  with  your  friends  who  say  Willis  was 
too  leniently  used.  Oh,  to  think  of  my  pet  passages  gone 
forever ! 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


TO  WILLIAM  EDMOXDSTOUNE  AYTOUX. 

13  Young  Street,  Kexsixgtox,  Jamiary  2,  1847. 

My  Dear  Aytoux,  —  I  hope  The  Maclosky  received  the 
^lulligan  present.  I  ought  to  have  written  before,  answer- 
ing your  kind,  hearty  letter,  but  business,  you  know,  and 
weariness  of  quill-driving  after  business  hours,  etc.  I  don't 
write  to  anybody,  that's  the  fact,  unless  I  want  something 
of  them,  and  perhaps  that's  the  case  at  this  present. 

I  think  I  have  never  had  any  ambition  hitherto,  or  cared 
what  the  world  thought  my  work,  good  or  bad ;  but  now 
the  truth  forces  itself  upon  me,  if  the  world  will  once  take 
to  admiring  Titmarsh,  all  his  guineas  will  be  multiplied  by 
ten.  Guineas  are  good.  I  have  got  children,  only  ten 
years  more  to  the  fore,  say,  etc. ;  now  is  the  time,  my  lad, 
to  make  vour  A  when  the  sun  at  lenojth  has  begun  to  shine. 


476  LETTERS, 

Well,  I  think  if  I  can  make  a  push  at  the  present 
minute — if  my  friends  will  shout,  Titmarsh  forever!  — 
hurrah  for,  etc.,  I  may  go  up  with  a  run  to  a  pretty  fair 
place  in  my  trade,  and  be  allowed  to  appear  before  the 
public  as  among  the  first  fiddles.  But  my  tunes  must  be 
heard  in  the  streets,  and  organs  must  grind  them.  Ha ! 
Now  do  you  read  me  ? 

Why  don't  Blackwood  give  me  an  article  ?  Because  he 
refused  the  best  story  I  ever  wrote  ?  Colburn  refused  the 
present  Novel  without  a  Hero,  and  if  any  man  at  Black- 
wood's or  Colburn's,  and  if  any  man  since  —  fiddle-de-dee. 
Upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  never  said  so  much  about 
myself  before  :  but  I  know  this,  if  I  had  the  command 
of  Blackwood  and  a  humoristical  person  like  Titmarsh 
should  come  up  and  labor  hard  and  honestly  (please  God) 
for  ten  years,  I  would  give  him  a  hand.  Now  try,  like  a 
man,  revolving  these  things  in  your  soul,  and  see  if  you 
can't  help  me.  .  .  .  And  if  I  can  save  a  little  money,  by 
the  Lord  !  I'll  try  and  keep  it. 

Some  day  when  less  selfish  I  will  write  to  you  about 
other  matters  than  the  present  ego.  The  dining  season 
has  begun  in  London  already,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  and  the 
Christmas  feeding  is  frightfully  severe.  ...  I  have  my 
children  with  me,  and  am  mighty  happy  in  that  paternal 
character  —  preside  over  legs  of  mutton  comfortably  —  go 
to  church  at  early  morning  and  like  it  —  pay  rates  and 
taxes,  etc.  Between  this  line  and  the  above,  a  man  had 
brought  me  the  Times  on  The  Battle  of  Life  to  read, 
Appy  Dickens !  But  I  love  Pickwick  and  Crummies  too 
well  to  abuse  this  great  man.  Aliquando  bonus.  And 
you,  young  man,  coming  up  in  the  world  full  of  fight,  take 
counsel  from  a  venerable  and  peaceable  old  gladiator  who 
has  stripped  for  many  battles.  Gad,  sir,  this  caution  is  a 
very  good  sign.  Do  you  remember  how  complimentary 
Scott  and  Goethe  were  ?  I  like  the  patriarchal  air  of  some 
people.     Have  you  ever  any  snow  in  Scotland  ? 

(Here  follows  an  admirable  drawing  of  a  dustman  sing- 
ing beside  his  cart,  with  snow  deep  in  the  street.) 

As  I  was  walking  in  just  now  I  met  this  fellow  singing 
"I  Dreamt  that  I  Dwelt  in  Marble  Halls,"  driving  a  dust- 
cart. I  burst  out  laughing,  and  so  did  he.  He  is  as  good 
as  Leech's  boy  in  the  last  Punch.  How  good  Leech  is, 
and  what  a  genuine  humor !  And  Hans  Christian  Ander- 
sen, have  you  read  him  ?     I  am   wild  about  him,  having 


TO    WILLIAM  EDMONDSrOUNE   AYTOUN.     477 

only  just  discovered  that  delightful,  delicate,  fanciful  crea- 
ture. Good-by,  my  dear  Aytoun.  I  wish  you  a  merry 
Christmas,  and  to  honest  Johnny  Blackwood.  Thank  him 
for  the  ^Magazine.  I  shall  enjoy  it  in  bed  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, when  I've  left  orders  not  to  be  called  for  church. 

Yours  ever, 

W.  M.  T. 

13  YouxG  Street,  Kexsixgtox,  Monday  Night. 
January  13,  1847. 

My  Dear  Aytoux,  —  The  copy  of  Mrs.  Perkins  which 
was  sent  by  the  Mulligan  to  the  other  chieftain  has  met 
with  a  mishap.  It  travelled  to  Edinburgh  in  the  portman- 
teau of  a  friend  of  mine,  who  arrived  at  ten  o'clock  at 
night  and  started  for  Inverness  the  next  morning  at  six. 
Mrs.  P.  went  with  him.  He  forgot  her  at  Inverness,  and 
came  back  to  London,  whither  Mrs.  Perkins  was  sent  after 
him  at  a  cost  of  4s.  lO^Z.  for  carriage.  She  is  not  worth 
that  money  either  for  you  or  me  to  pay,  and  waits  in  my 
room  till  you  come  to  town  in  spring. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  the  other  matter  on  which  I  un- 
bosomed myself  to  you,  and  withdraw  my  former  letter. 
Puffs  are  good,  and  the  testimony  of  good  men ;  but  I  don't 
think  these  will  make  a  success  for  a  man,  and  he  ought  to 
stand  as  the  public  chooses  to  put  him.  I  will  try,  please 
God,  to  do  my  best,  and  the  money  will  come,  perhaps, 
some  day  !  Meanwhile  a  man  so  lucky  as  myself  has  no 
reason  to  complain.  So  let  all  puffing  alone,  although,  as 
you  know,  I  am  glad  if  I  can  have  and  deserve  your  private 
good  opinion.  The  women  like  Vanity  Fair  I  find,  very 
much,  and  the  publishers  are  quite  in  good  spirits  regard- 
ing that  venture. 

This  is  all  I  have  to  say  —  in  the  solitude  of  midnight  — 
with  a  quiet  cigar  and  the  weakest  gin  and  water  in  the 
world,  ruminating  over  a  child's  ball,  from  which  I  have 
just  come,  having  gone  as  chaperon  to  my  little  girls.  One 
of  them  had  her  hair  plaited,  in  two  tails,  the  other  had  ring- 
lets (here  follows  a  sketch  of  the  children),  and  the  most 
fascinating  bows  of  blue  ribbon.  It  was  very  merry  and 
likewise  sentimental.  We  went  in  a  fly  quite  genteel,  and, 
law  I  Avhat  a  comfort  it  was  when  it  was  over.  Adyou. 
Yours  sincerely, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


478  LETTERS. 


TO   G.   H.   LEWES.* 

London,  April  28,  1855. 

Dear  Lkwes,  —  I  wish  I  had  more  to  tell  you  regarding 
Weimar  and  Goethe.  Five  and  twenty  years  ago,  at  least 
a  score  of  young  English  lads  used  to  live  at  Weimar  for 
study,  or  sport,  or  society :  all  of  which  were  to  be  had  in 
the  friendly  little  Saxon  capital.  The  Grand  Duke  and 
Duchess  received  us  with  the  kindliest  hospitality.  The 
Court  was  splendid,  but  yet  most  pleasant  and  homely. 
We  were  invited  in  our  turns  to  dinners,  balls,  and  assem- 
blies there.  Such  young  men  as  had  a  right  appeared  in 
uniforms,  diplomatic  and  military.  Some,  I  remember,  in- 
vented gorgeous  clothing ;  the  kind  old  Hof-Marschall  of 
those  days.  Monsieur  de  Spiegel  (who  had  two  of  the  most 
lovely  daughters  eyes  ever  looked  on),  being  in  no  wise  dif- 
ficult as  to  the  admission  of  these  young  Englanders.  Of 
the  winter  nights  we  used  to  charter  sedan-chairs,  in  which 
we  were  carried  through  the  snow  to  those  pleasant  Court 
entertainments.  I  for  my  part  had  the  good  luck  to  pur- 
chase Schiller's  sword,  which  formed  a  part  of  my  Court 
costume,  and  still  hangs  in  my  study,  and  puts  me  in  mind 
of  days  of  youth  the  most  kindly  and  delightful. 

We  knew  the  whole  society  of  the  little  city,  and  but 
that  the  young  ladies,  one  and  all,  spoke  admirable  English, 
we  surely  might  have  learned  the  very  best  German.  The 
society  met  constantly.  The  ladies  of  the  Court  had  their 
evenings.  The  theatre  was  open  twice  or  thrice  in  the 
week,  where  we  assembled,  a  large  family  party.  Goethe 
had  retired  from  the  direction,  but  the  great  traditions  re- 
mained still.  The  theatre  was  admirably  conducted ;  and 
besides  the  excellent  Weimar  company,  famous  actors  and 
singers  from  various  parts  of  Germany  performed  ''  Gas- 
trolle"t  through  the  winter.  In  that  winter  I  remember 
we  had  Ludwig  Devrient  in  Shylock,  Hamlet,  Falstaff,  and 
the  Robbers,  and  the  beautiful  Schroder  in  Fidelio. 

After  three  and  twenty  years'  absence  I  passed  a  couple 
of  summer  days  in  the  well-remembered  place,  and  was 
fortunate  enough  to  find  some  of  the  friends  of  my  youth. 
Madame  de  Goethe  was  there,  and  received  me  and  my 

*  This  letter  was  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray  in  answer  to  a  request 
from  G.  H.  Lewes  for  some  account  of  his  recollections  of  Goethe, 
t   What  iu  England  are  called  "  starring  engagements." 


TO   G.   H.   LEWES.  479 

daughters  with  the  kindness  of  old  days.  We  drank  tea  in 
the  open  air  at  the  famous  cottage  in  the  Park,*  which  still 
belongs  to  the  family,  and  has  been  so  often  inhabited  by 
her  illustrious  father. 

In  1831,  though  he  had  retired  from  the  world,  Goethe 
would  nevertheless  very  kindly  receive  strangers.  His 
daughter-in-law's  tea-table  was  always  spread  for  us.  We 
passed  hours  after  hours  there,  and  night  after  night,  with 
the  pleasantest  talk  and  music.  We  read  over  endless 
novels  and  poems  in  French,  English,  and  German.  My 
delight  in  those  days  was  to  make  caricatures  for  children. 
I  was  touched  to  find  that  they  were  remembered,  and  some 
even  kept  until  the  present  time  ;  and  very  proud  to  be 
told,  as  a  lad,  that  the  great  Goethe  had  looked  at  some  of 
them. 

He  remained  in  his  private  apartments,  where  only  a 
very  few  privileged  persons  were  admitted ;  but  he  liked 
to  know  all  that  was  happening,  and  interested  himself 
about  all  strangers.  Whenever  a  countenance  struck  his 
fancy,  there  was  an  artist  settled  in  Weimar  who  made  a 
portrait  of  it.  Goethe  had  quite  a  gallery  of  heads,  in 
black  and  white,  taken  by  this  painter.  His  house  was  all 
over  pictures,  drawings,  casts,  statues,  and  medals. 

Of  course  I  remember  very  well  the  perturbation  of 
spirit  with  which,  as  a  lad  of  nineteen,  I  received  the  long- 
expected  intimation  that  the  Herr  Geheimrath  would  see 
me  on  such  a  morning.  This  notable  audience  took  place 
in  a  little  ante-chamber  of  his  private  apartments,  covered 
all  round  with  antique  casts  and  bas-reliefs.  He  was  hab- 
ited in  a  long  gray  or  drab  redingote,  with  a  white  neck- 
cloth and  a  red  ribbon  in  his  button-hole.  He  kept  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  just  as  in  Eauch's  statuette.  His 
complexion  was  very  bright,  clear,  and  rosy.  His  eyes  ex- 
traordinarily dark.f  piercing  and  brilliant.  I  felt  quite 
afraid  before  them,  and  recollect  comparing  them  to  the 
eyes  of  the  hero  of  a  certain  romance  called  "Melmoth  the 
Wanderer,"  which  used  to  alarm  us  boys  thirty  years  a^o ; 
eyes  of  an  individual  who  had  made  a  bargain  with  a  Cer- 
tain Person,  and  at  an  extreme  old  age  retained  these  eyes 
in  all  their  awful  splendor.  I  fancy  Goethe  must  have 
been  still  more  handsome  as  an  old  man  than  even  in  the 

*  The  Gartenhaus. 

+  This  must  have  been  the  effect  of  the  position  in  which  he  sat  with 
regard  to  the  light.     Goethe's  eyes  were  dark  brown,  but  not  very  dark. 


480  LETTERS. 

(lays  of  his  youth.  His  voice  was  very  rich  and  sweet. 
He  asked  me  questions  about  myself,  which  I  answered  as 
best  I  could.  I  recollect  I  was  at  first  astonished,  and  then 
somewhat  relieved,  when  I  found  he  spoke  French  with 
not  a  good  accent. 

Vidl  tantum.  I  saw  him  but  three  times.  Once  walking 
in  the  garden  of  his  house  in  the  Fvauenidan  ;  once  going 
to  step  into  his  chariot  on  a  sunshiny  day,  wearing  a  cap 
and  a  cloak  with  a  red  collar.  He  was  caressing  at  the 
time  a  beautiful  little  golden-haired  granddaughter,  over 
whose  sweet  fair  face  the  earth  has  long  since  closed  too. 

Any  of  us  who  had  books  or  magazines  from  England 
sent  them  to  him,  and  he  examined  them  eagerly.  Fraser^s 
JIagazine  had  lately  come  out,  and  I  remember  he  was  in- 
terested in  those  admirable  outline  portraits  which  appeared 
for  a  while  in  its  pages.  But  there  was  one,  a  very  ghastly 
caricature  of  Mr.  Eogers,  which,  as  Madame  de  Goethe  told 
me,  he  shut  up  and  put  away  from  him  angrily.  "  They 
would  make  me  look  like  that,"  he  said :  though  in  truth  I 
can  fancy  nothing  more  serene,  majestic,  and  healthy-looking 
than  the  grand  old  Goethe. 

Though  his  sun  was  setting,  the  sky  round  about  was 
calm  and  bright,  and  that  little  Weimar  illumined  by  it. 
In  every  one  of  those  kind  salons  the  talk  was  still  of  Art 
and  Letters.  The  theatre,  though  possessing  no  very  ex- 
traordinary actors,  was  still  conducted  with  a  noble  intelli- 
gence and  order.  The  actors  read  books,  and  were  men  of 
letters  and  gentlemen,  holding  a  not  unkindly  relationship 
with  the  Adel.  At  Court  the  conversation  was  exceedingly 
friendly,  simple,  and  polished.  The  Grand  Duchess  (the 
present  Grand  Duchess  Dowager),  a  lady  of  very  remark- 
able endowments,  would  kindly  borrow  our  books  from  us, 
lend  us  her  own,  and  graciously  talk  to  us  young  men  about 
our  literary  tastes  and  pursuits.  In  the  respect  paid  by 
this  Court  to  the  Patriarch  of  letters,  there  was  something 
ennobling,  I  think,  alike  to  the  subject  and  sovereign. 
With  a  five-and-twenty-years'  experience  since  those  happy 
days  of  which  I  write  and  an  acquaintance  with  an  immense 
variety  of  human  kind,  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a  society 
more  simple,  charitable,  courteous,  gentlemanlike,  than  that 
of  the  dear  little  Saxon  city  where  the  good  Schiller  and 
the  great  Goethe  lived  and  lie  buried. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


TO  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW.     481 


TO   ANTHONY    TROLLOPE. 

36  Onslow  Square,  S.  W.,  October  28,  1859. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Trollope,  —  Smith  and  Elder  have 
sent  you  their  proposals ;  and  the  business  part  done,  let 
me  come  to  the  pleasure,  and  say  how  very  glad  indeed  I 
shall  be  to  have  you  as  a  co-operator  in  our  new  magazine. 
And  looking  over  the  annexed  programme,  you  will  see 
whether  you  can't  help  us  in  many  ways  besides  tale-telling. 
AVhatever  a  man  knows  about  life  and  its  doings,  that  let 
us  hear  about.  You  must  have  tossed  a  good  deal  about 
the  world,  and  have  countless  sketches  in  your  memory 
and  your  portfolio.  Please  to  think  if  you  can  furbish  up 
any  of  these  besides  a  novel.  When  events  occur,  and  you 
have  a  good  lively  tale,  bear  this  in  mind.  One  of  our 
chief  objects  in  this  magazine  is  the  getting  out  of  novel 
spinning,  and  back  into  the  world.  Don't  understand  me 
to  disparage  our  craft,  especially  your  wares.  1  often  say 
I  am  like  the  pastrycook,  and  don't  care  for  tarts,  but  pre- 
fer bread  and  cheese ;  but  the  public  love  the  tarts  (luckily 
for  us),  and  we  must  bake  and  sell  them.  There  was  quite 
an  excitement  in  my  family  one  evening  when  Pater- 
familias (who  goes  to  sleep  on  a  novel  almost  always  when 
he  tries  it  after  dinner)  came  upstairs  into  the  drawing- 
room  wide  awake  and  calling  for  the  second  volume  of  The 
Three  Clerks.  I  hope  the  Conihlll  3Iar/azine  will  have  as 
pleasant  a  story.  And  the  Chapmans,  if  they  are  the  hon- 
est men  I  take  them  to  be,  I've  no  doubt  have  told  you 
with  what  sincere  liking  your  works  have  been  read  by 
yours  very  faithfully, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


TO   HEXEY  WADSWOETH   LONGFELLOW. 

o6  Onslow  Square.  London.  "N'ovember  16,  1859. 

I\Iy  Dear  Mr.  Loxgfellow,  —  Has  Hiawatha  ever  a 
spare  shaft  in  his  quiver,  which  he  can  shoot  across  the 
Atlantic  ?  How  proud  I  should  be  if  I  could  have  a  con- 
tribution or  two  from  you  for  our  Cornhill  Magazine. 

I  should  like  still  better  to  be  driving  to  Cambridge  in 
the  snow,  and  expecting  a  supper  there.  Two  or  three 
months  a?o  T  actuallv  thought  such  a  scheme  was  about  to 


482  LETTERS. 

come  off.  I  intended  to  shut  up  my  desk  for  a  year,  —  not 
write  a  line,  —  and  go  on  my  travels.  But  the  gods  willed 
otherwise.  I  am  pressed  into  the  service  of  this  Magazine, 
and  engaged  to  write  ever  so  much  more  for  the  next  three 
years.  Then,  if  I  last  so  long,  I  shall  be  free  of  books  and 
publishers ;  and  hope  to  see  friends  to  whose  acquaintance 
I  look  back  with  —  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  gratitude 
and  kind  feeling. 

I  send  my  best  regards  to  Tom  Appleton,  and  beg  him 
to  back  my  petition  to  his  brother-in-law. 

Always  sincerely  yours, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  DIONYSIUS  DIDDLER.=^ 


Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  —  Many  thousand  years  ago, 
in  the  reign  of  Chrononhotonthologos,  King  of  Brentford, 
there  lived  a  young  gentleman  whose  history  is  about  ro 
be  laid  before  you. 

He  was  sixty  years  of  age,  and  his  name  was  Dionysius 
Diddler ;  no  relation  of  any  other  Dionysius,  nor,  indeed,  a 
Brentfordian  by  birth;  for  (though  the  Diddlers  are  very 
numerous  in  Brentford)  this  was  a  young  fellow  from  Pat- 
land,  which  country  he  quitted  at  a  very  early  age. 

He  was  by  trade  a  philosopher, — an  excellent  profession 
in  Brentford,  where  the  people  are  more  ignorant  and  more 
easily  humbugged  than  an}'  people  on  earth; — and  no 
doubt  he  would  have  made  a  pretty  fortune  by  his  philoso- 
phy, but  the  rogue  longed  to  be  a  man  of  fashion,  and 
spent  all  his  money  in  buying  clothes,  and  in  giving  treats 
to  the  ladies,  of  whom  he  was  outrageously  fond.  Xot  that 
they  were  very  partial  to  him,  for  he  was  not  particularly 
handsome  —  especially  without  his  wig  and  false  teeth, 
both  of  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  this  poor  Diddler  wore. 

Well,  the  consequence  of  his  extravagance  was,  that, 
although  by  his  learning  he  had  made  himself  famous 
(there  was  his  Essay  on  the  Tea-Kettle,  his  Remarks  on 
Pumps,  and  his  celebrated  Closet  Cyclopaedia,  that  every 
one  has  heard  of)  —  one  day,  after  forty  years  of  glory, 
Diddler  found  himself  turned  out  of  his  lodging,  without 
a  penny,  without  his  wig,  which  he  had  pawned,  without 
even  his  teeth,  which  he  had  pawned  too,  seeing  he  had 
no  use  for  them. 

And  now  befell  a  series  of  adventures  that  you  shall  all 
hear  ;  and  so  take  warning,  ye  dashing  blades  of  the  town, 
by  the  awful  fate  of  Dionysius. 

*  First  published  iu  the  Autographic  Mirror,  1864.  Tlie  drawings 
were  made  about  1838. 

483 


This  is  Dionysius  Diddler!  young,  innocent,  and  with  a  fine  head 
of  hair,  —  when  he  was  a  student  in  the  University  of  Ballybunion.  — 
That  is  Ballybunion  University,  in  the  hedge. 


Here  he  is,  after  forty  years  of  fame,  and  he  thinks  upon  dear 
Ballybunion.  ''I'm  femons,"  says  he,  "all  the  world  over:  but 
what's  the  use  of  riputetion  ?  Look  at  me  with  all  me  luggage  at  the 
end  of  me  stick  —  all  me  money  in  me  left-hand  breeches  pocket  — 
and  it's  oh!  but  I'd  give  all  me  celebrity  for  a  bowl  of  butther-milk 
and  potaties." 


He  goes  to  call  on  Mr.  Shortman,  the  publisher  of  the  '•Closet 
Cyclopaedia,"  and  sure  and  ouns!  Mr.  Sliortman  gives  him  three  sov- 
ereigns and  three  five-pound  notes. 


The  first  thing  he  does  is  to  take  his  wig  out  of  pawn. 


"  And  now,"  says  lie,  "I'll  go  take  a  sthroll  to  the  Wist  Ind,  and 
call  on  me  frind,  Sir  Hinry  Pelham." 


He  pays  a  visit  to  Sir  Henry  Pelham. 


/ 


*'Fait!"  says  Diddler,  "the  what  d'ye-call-'ems  fit  me  like  a  glove." 


"  Ami  upon  rae  honor  and  conshience,  now  I'm  dthressed,  but  I 
look  intirely  giuteel." 


t;  uT:  3   '-  O   ►= 

E-^  i "^ ^  'rj 

^  O  ^   S   ^  rD^ 

^  o  ^  s  „.  rr 


J33III: 


GENERAL  INDEX  TO  THACKERAY'S  WORKS. 


Abd-el-Kader  at  Toulon;  or   The 

Caged  Hawk,  xx.  272. 
About  a  Christmas  Book,  xxi.  43. 
Academy,  Royal,  xxi.  210. 
Academy,  The  Royal,  xxii.  233  and 

237. 
Account   of   the    Ball  given  to  the 

Nepaulese    Ambassador    by    the 

Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company, 

Mr.  Moloney's,  xx.  332. 
Ad  Ministram,  xx.  305. 
Adventures  of  Philip,  The,  xvii.  1 ; 

xviii.  1. 
Age,  A  New  Spirit  of  the,  xix.  497. 
Age  of  Wisdom,  The,  xx.  289. 
"Ah,   Bleak   and    Barren  was  the 

Moor,"  XX.  291. 
Alexandrines,  On,  xix.  290. 
Almack's  Adieu,  The,  xx.  307. 
American  Traveller,  On  an,  xxi.  185. 
Amours   of   Mr.  Deuceace,  The,  v. 

Arabella :  or  the  Moral  of  the  "  Par- 
tie  Fine,"  xxii.  395. 

Are  there  any  Whig  Snobs  ?  xxi. 
162. 

Artists,  The,  xii.  400. 

Art  Unions,  On,  xxii.  220. 

Art  Unions,  The  Objections  against, 
xxii.  225. 

Atra  Cura,  xx.  311. 

At  the  Church  Gate,  xx.  289. 

Authentic  Account  of  the  Grand  Ex- 
hibition, M.  Gobemouche's,  xxi. 
366. 

Authors  and  their  Patrons,  xxii.  464. 

Authors'  Miseries,  xxi.  433. 

Autour  de  Mon  Chapeau,  xix.  282. 

Axe,  the  Notch  on  the,  xix.  210, 
217,  226. 

Aytoun.  Letters  to  William  Ed- 
mondstoune,  xxii.  475. 


Ballad   of  Bouillahaisse,    The,  xx. 

281. 
Ballad    of    Eliza   Davis,   The,   xx. 

341. 
Ballads,  xx.  265. 
Ballads  of  Policeman  X.,  The,  xx. 

337. 
Ball,  The  Charles  the  Second,  xxi. 

370. 
Barbazure,  vi.  44. 
Bard,  The  Merry,  xx.  294. 
Barmecide   Banquets,  with  Joseph 

Breg-ion  and  Anne  Miller,  xxii.  27. 
Barnwell,  George  de,  vi.  1. 
Barry  Lyndon,  Esq.,  The  Memoirs 

of,  viii.  1. 
Battle  of  Limerick,  The,  xx.  333. 
Bedford-Row    Conspiracy,    The,   v. 

299. 
Belgravia,  The  Lion   Huntress   of, 

xxi.  341. 
Bells,  On  a  Peal  of,  xix.  244. 
Be  ranger.  Four  Imitations   of,  xx. 

300. 
Berry,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank,  vii.  261. 
Beulah  Spa,  xxi.  131. 
Bluebeard's  Ghost,  xx.  502. 
Book  of  Snobs,  The,  vii.  313. 
Books,   On   some   Illustrated   Chil- 
dren's, xxii.  68. 
Box  of  Novels,  A,  xix.  475. 
Boy,  On  a  Lazy,  Idle,  xix.  1. 
Braham,  Mr.,  xx.  357. 
Brentford,  The  King  of,  xx.  301. 
Brighton,  xxi.  135. 
Brighton  in  1847,  xxi.  118. 
Brighton,  Meditations  over,  xxi.  143. 
Brighton   Night  Entertainment,  A, 

xxi.  138. 
British   Footmen,   The   Persecution 

of,  xxi.  247. 
Brother  of   the   Press  on  the  His- 


494 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


tory  of  a  Literary  Man,  Laman 
Blanchard,  and  the  Chances  of 
the  Literary  Profession,  A,  xxii. 
53. 

Brownrigge,  Elizabeth,  xx.  366. 

Bubble,  A  Mississippi,  xix.  152. 

Bunn,  A,  XX,  359. 

Butler,  The  Froddylent,  xxi.  453. 

Caique,  The,  xx.  294. 

Cambridge   Election,    Mr.  Jeames's 

Sentiments  on  the,  xxi.  222. 
Cambridge,  Science  at,  xxi.  285. 
Cane-Bottom'd  Chair,  The,  xx.  286. 
Capers  and  Anchovies,  xxii.  432. 
Captain  Rook  and  Mr.  Pigeon,  xii. 

367. 
Caricatures,  xxi.  433,  440,  441,  442, 

443,  444. 
Carlyle's    French    Revolution,   xix. 

426. 
Catherine,  xviii.  295. 
Ceremony,  On  the  Funeral,  xix.  346. 
Chalk-Mark  on  the  Door,  On  a,  xix. 

97. 
Chapeau,  Autour  de  Mon,  xix.  280. 
Chaplet,  The,  xx.  297. 
Character  Sketches,  xii.  367. 
Charity  and  Humor,  xxii.  447. 
Charles  the  Second  Ball,  The,  xxi. 

370. 
Charruas,  The,  xxii.  13. 
Chest  of  Cigars,  The,  xxii.  409. 
Children  in  Black,  On  two,  xix.  8. 
Child's  Parties,  xiii.  439. 
Christmas  Book,  About  a,  xxii.  43. 
Christmas  Books,  A  Grumble  about 

the,  xxii.  83. 
Christmas  Stories,  xx.  1. 
Christmas-Tree,  Round  about  the, 

xix.  88. 
Chronicle   of   the   Drum,    The,  xx. 

265. 
Chronicle,  Small-Beer,  xix.  124. 
Church  Gate,  At  the,  xx.  289. 
Cigars,  The  Chest  of,  xxii.  409. 
City,  A  Doe   in  the,  xx.  290;  xxi. 

211. 
Civilian,  On  the  Snob,  xxi.  165. 
Club  in  an  Uproar,  A,  xxi.  234. 
Codlingsby,  vi.  15. 
Comedy,  Thoughts  on  a  New,  xxi. 

331. 
Come  to  the   Greenwood   Tree,  xx. 

296. 


Commanders   of    the   Faithful,  xx. 

308. 
Commerce  and  Literature,  xxii.  471. 
Commissioner,   Papers  by  Punch's, 

xxi.  127. 
Conservative      or     Country  -  Party 

Snobs,  On,  xxi.  158. 
Conspiracy,    The   Bedford-Row,  v. 

299. 
Contributor,  Papers  by  the  Fat,  xxi. 

68. 
Contributor,  Wanderings  of  our  Fat, 

xxi.  68. 
Cox's  Diary,  vi.  411. 
Credo,_  A,  xx.  298. 
Crinoline,  vi.  67. 
Critical  Reviews,  xix.  369. 
Criticisms  in  Literature    and  Art, 

xxii.  20. 
Cruikshank,  George,  xix.  369. 
Crystal  Palace,  The,  xx.  329. 
Curate's  Walk,  The,  xiii.  449. 
Cushion,  Thorns  in  the,  xix.  37- 

"  Daddy,  I  'm  Hungry,"  xx.  362. 
Damages,    Two   Hundred    Pounds, 

XX.  343. 
Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free  Pencil, 

xxii.  20. 
Dear  Jack,  xx.  308. 
Death  of  the  Earl  of  Robinson,  xxi. 

289. 
De  Finibus,  xix.  235. 
De  Juventute,  xix.  62. 
Denis  Duval,  viii.  313. 
Dennis  Hoggarty's  Wife,  vii.  287. 
Dessein's,  xix.  262. 
Deuceace,  Mr. ,  at  Paris,  v.  49. 
Diamond,    The     Great    Hoggarty, 

vii.  1. 
Diary,  Cox's,  vi.  411. 
Diary  of  C.  Jeames  De  La  Pluche, 

Esq.,  The,  with  his  Letters,  vi. 

95. 
Diary,  On  Letts's,  xix.  161. 
Dickens  in  France,  xxii.  365. 
Dignity   of    Literature,    The,    xxii. 

426. 
Dining-Room,  On  Screens  in,  xix.  47. 
Dinner  in  the  City,  A,  xiii.  459. 
Dinners  at  Paris,  On  Some,  xxi.  309. 
Disinterment    of    Napoleon    at    St. 

Helena,  On  the,  xix.  319. 
Ditties,  Five  German,  xx.  297. 
Divertissement,  "  Les    Houris,"    A 


GENERAL   INDEX. 


495 


Turkish    Letter    Concerning  the, 

xxi.  199. 
Doe  in  the  City,  A,  xx.  290;    xxi. 

211. 
Door,  On  a  Chalk-Mark  on  the,  xix. 

97. 
Dorothea,  v.  184. 
Dr.  Birch  and  His  Young-  Friends, 

XX.  65. 
Drum,    Chronicle   of   the,  xx.   265, 

268. 
Duke,  The  Flying,  xxi.  447. 

Earlier  Poems,  xx.  357. 

Earl  of  Robinson,  Death  of  the,  xxi. 

289. 
East,  Punch  in  the,  xxi.  96. 
Eastern  Sketches,  xi.  325. 
Elizabeth  Brownrig-ge,  xx.  366. 
Eliza  Da%-is,  Ballad  of,  xx.  341. 
Enchanted  Princess,  The,  xx.  446. 
End  of  the  Play,  The.  xx.  354, 
English  Humorists,  The,  xiii.  113. 
Enteri:ainraent,  A  Brighton  Night, 

xxi.  138. 
Epistles  to  the  Literati,  v.  140. 
Esmond,    The    History    of    Henry, 

xiv.  1. 
Exhibition  Gossip,  An,  xxii.  210. 
Exliibition,    M.   Gobemouche's   Au- 
thentic   Account    of    the    Grand, 

xxi.  366. 
Exhibition,  Port;raits  from  the  Late, 

xxi.  388. 
Exhibition,  What  I  remarked  at  the, 

xxi.  363. 
Exile,  On  an  Interesting  French,  xxi. 

180. 

Fairy  Days,  xx.  291. 
Family,  An  Ingleez,  xxi.  379. 
Fashnable  Authoress,  The,  xii.  386. 
Fashnable    Fax    and   Polite  Anny- 

goats,  xix.  434. 
Fatal  Boots,  The.  v.  385. 
Fat  Contributor,  Papers  by  the,  xxi. 

68. 
Fat  Contributor,  "Wanderings  of  our, 

xxi.  68. 
Fine  Arts,  A  Second  Lecture  on  the, 

xxii.  124. 
Finibus,  De,  xix.  235. 
Fitz-Boodle    Papers,    The,    v.   161; 

xxii,  292. 
Fitz-Boodle's  Confessions,  v.  161. 


Fitz-Boodle's  Professions,  v.  216. 

Five  German  Ditties,  xx.  297. 

Flying  Duke,  The,  xxi.  447. 

Fogarty,  Phil,  vi.  29. 

Footmen,  The  Persecution  of  Brit- 
ish, xxi.  247. 

Foreign  Correspondence,  xxii.  7. 

Foring  Parts,  v.  38. 

Foundling  of  Shoreditch,  The  Lam- 
entable Ballad  of  the,  xx.  349. 

Found  Out,  On  being,  xix.  109. 

Four  Georges,  The,  xiii.  1. 

French  Revolution,  Carlyle's,  xix. 
426. 

French  Revolution,  The  History  of 
the  Next,  vi.  369. 

Friar's  Song,  xx.  310. 

Froddylent  Butler,  The,  xxi.  453. 

From  Pocahontas,  xx.  292. 

Funeral  Ceremony,  On  the,  xix.  346. 

Gahagan,  The  Tremendous  Adven- 
tures of  Major,  vi.  159. 

Garret,  The,  xx.  302. 

Gems,  Irish,  xxi.  258. 

George  De  Barnwell,  vi.  1. 

George  the  Fourth,  On  a  Medal  of, 
xix.  298. 

Georges,  The,  xxi.  208. 

Georges,  The  Four,  xiii.  1. 

German  Ditties,  Five,  xx.  297. 

Germany,  A  Strange  Man  just  Dis- 
covered in,  xxi.  359. 

Ghazul,  The,  or  Oriental  Love  Song. 
XX.  293. 

Gobemouche's,  M.,  Authentic  Ac- 
count of  the  Grand  Exhibition, 
xxi.  366. 

Going  to  see  a  Man  Hanged,  xiii, 
506. 

Good-Looking  Young  Lady,  On  a, 
xxi.  174. 

Gormandizing,  Memorials  of,  xxii. 
320. 

Gossip,  An  Exhibition,  xxii.  210. 

Grant  in  P.iris,  xix-  459. 

Great  Squattleborough  Soirde,  The. 
xxi.  293. 

Greenwich- Whitebait,  xxii.  401. 

Greenwood  Tree,  Come  to  the,  xx. 
296. 

Grenier,  Le,  xx.  302. 

Grievance,  The  Last  Irish,  xx.  336. 

Grumble  about  the  Christmas  Books, 
A,  xxii.  83. 


496 


GENERAL  INDEX, 


Half  a  Loaf,  On,  xix.  201. 

Heavies,  The,  xxi.  442. 

Henry    Esmond,    The    History    of, 

xiv.  1. 
History  of  a  Literary  Man,  Laman 

Blanchard  and  the  Chances  of  a 

Literary  Profession,  A  Brother  of 

the  Press  on  the,  xxii.  53. 
History  of  Dionysius  Diddler,  xxii. 

483.' 
History    of    Henry    Esmond,    The, 

xiv.  1. 
History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh  and  the 

Great   Hoggarty   Diamond,   The, 

vii.  1. 
BQstory  of  the  Next  French  Revolu- 
tion, The,  vi.  369. 
Hobson's  Choice,  xxi.  315. 
Hoggarty     Diamond,    The     Great, 

vii.  1. 
Holiday,  Notes   of   a  Week's,   xix. 

170. 
Holidays,  Why  can't  they  leave  us 

alone  in  the,  xxi.  356. 
Hood,  On  a  Joke  I  once  heard  from 

the  Late  Thomas,  xix.  77. 
Hundred  Years  Hence,  On  a,  xix. 

116. 
Horace,  Imitation  of,  xx.  305. 

Idler,  The,  xx.  363. 

Illustrated  Children's  Books,  On 
some,  xxii.  68. 

Imitation  of  Horace,  xx.  305. 

Imitations  of  Beranger,  Four,  xx. 
300. 

Important  from  the  Seat  of  War, 
xxi.  394. 

Ingleez  Family,  An,  xxi.  379. 

Ingleez,  Panorama  of  the,  xxi.  374. 

Interesting  French  Exile,  On  an, 
xxi.  180. 

Ireland,  Letters  to  a  Nobleman  Vis- 
iting, xxi.  276. 

Irish  Gems,  xxi.  258. 

Irish  Sketch  Book  of  1842,  The, 
xii.  1. 

Jacob  Homnium's  Hoss,  xx.  346. 
Jeames  on  the  Gauge  Question,  vi. 

149. 
Jeames  on  Time  Bargings,  vi.  146. 
Jeames' s,    Mr.,    Sentiments    on   the 

Cambridge  Election,  xxi.  222. 
Jerome  Paturot,  xix.  444. 


Joke  I  once  heard  from  the  Late 

Thomas  Hood,  On  a,  xix.  77- 
Jolly  Jack,  xx.  304. 
Juventute,  De,  xix.  62. 

Kickleburys  on  the  Rhine,  The,  xx. 

105. 
King  Canute,  xx.  308. 
King  of  Brentford,  The,  xx.  301. 
King  of  Brentford's  Testament,  The, 

XX.  273. 
King  of  Yvetot,  The,  xx.  300. 
King  on  the  Tower,  The,  xx.  298. 
Knight  and  the  Lady,  The,  xx.  344. 
Knightly  Guerdon,  The,  xx.  306. 

Lady  in  an  Opera-Box,  On  a,  xiii. 
424. 

Lady,  On  a  Good-Looking  Young, 
xxi.  174. 

Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Found- 
ling of  Shoreditch,  The,  xx.  349. 

Larry  O' Toole,  xx.  335. 

Last  Irish  Grievance,  The,  xx.  336. 

Last  of  May,  The,  xx.  290. 

Last  Sketch,  The,  xix.  313. 

Late  Great  Victories,  On  some,  xix. 
29. 

Leaf  out  of  a  Sketch  Book,  A,  xxii. 
441. 

Leaving  England  for  America,  On, 
xxii.  469. 

Lecture,  xxii.  447. 

Lectures  on  English  History,  Miss 
Tickletoby's,  xxi.  1. 

Leech's  Pictures  of  Life  and  Char- 
acter, John,  xix.  412. 

Legend  of  St.  Sophia  of  KiofP,  xx. 
313. 

Legend  of  the  Rhine,  A,  vi.  239. 

Letters,  xxii.  474. 

Letters  on  the  Fine  Arts,  xxii.  220, 
225,  233,  237. 

Letters  to  a  Nobleman  Visiting  Ire- 
land, xxi.  276. 

Letts's  Diary,  On,  xix.  161. 

Lewes,  G.  H.,  Letters  to,  xxii.  478. 

Life  and  Character,  John  Leech's 
Pictures  of,  xix.  412. 

Limavaddy,  Peg  of,  xx.  278. 

Limerick,  The  Battle  of,  xx.  338. 

Lines  on  a  Late  Hospieious  Ewent, 
XX.  340. 

Lines  upon  my  Sister's  Portrait,  xx. 
3U. 


GENERAL   INDEX. 


497 


Lion   Huntress   of  Belgravia,   The, 

xxi.  341. 
Literary  Snobs,  On,  xxi.  146. 
Literature  at  a  Stand,  xxi.  444. 
Literature,    The    Dignity   of,   xxii. 

426. 
Literature  versus  Politics,  xxii.  462. 
Little  Billee,  xx.  353. 
Little   Dinner   at   Timmin's,  A,    v. 

349. 
Little  Spitz,  A  Lenten  Anecdote,  xx. 

4.55. 
Little       Travels       and       Roadside 

Sketches,  v.  439. 
Loaf,  On  Half  a,  xix.  201. 
London,   Sketches   and   Travels  in, 

xiii.  333. 
London,  The  Sights  of,  xxi.  336. 
London,  Travels  in,  xxi.  230. 
Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth,  Let- 
ters to,  xxii.  481. 
Lords  and  Liveries,  vi.  56. 
Louis  Philippe,  xx.  357. 
Love  in  Fetters,  xx.  360. 
liovel  the  Widower,  ii.  335. 
Love-Songs  Made  Easy,  xx.  293. 
Lucky  Speculator,  A,  vi.  95. 
Lucy's  Birthday,  xx.  286. 
Lyndon,   Barry,  Esq.,  The  Memoirs 

of,  viii.  1. 
Lyra  Hibemica,  xx.  328. 

Magic  Powder,  The,  xx.  438. 
MahoganvTree,  The,  xx.  282. 
Mary.  To,  xx.  295.  i 

May  Day  Ode,  xx.  279.  j 

May  Gambols:   or,  Titmarsh  in  the 

Picture  Galleries,  xxii.  241.  j 

Medal  of  George  the  Fourth,  On  a,  I 

xix.  298. 
Meditations  on  Solitude,  xxi.  127- 
Meditations  over  Brighton,  xxi.  143. 
Memoirs    of    Barry   Lyndon,   Esq., 

The,  viii.  1. 
Memoirs  of  Mr.  C  J.  Yellowplush, 

The,  v.  1.  ! 

Memorials    of    Gormandizing,   xxii.  ' 

320.  __  ; 

Men  and  Coats,  xxii.  347.  ^  j 

Men  and  Pictures,  On,  xxii.  185. 
Mens   Wives,    vii.   135,    261,    287; 

xxii.  299. 
Merry  Bard,  The,  xix.  294. 
Minaret  Bells,  The,  xx.  296. 
Ministram,  Ad,  xx.  305. 


Miscellaneous  Contributions,  xxi 
195. 

Miseries,  Authors',  xxi.  433. 

Mississippi  Bubble,  A,  xix.  152. 

Miss  Lowe,  xx.  480. 

Miss  Shum's  Husband,  v.  1. 

Miss  Tickletoby's  Lectures  on  Eng- 
lish History,  xxi.  1. 

Molony's  Lament,  xx.  331. 

Moses,  Mr.  Smith  and,  xxi.  451. 

Movement,  On  the  New  Forward, 
xxi.  263. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Berry,  vii.  261 

Mr.  Braham,  xx.  357. 

Mr.  Brown's  Letters  to  his  Nephew 
xiii.  333. 

Mr.  Deuceace  at  Paris,  v.  49. 

Mr.  Jeames  again,  vi.  153. 

Mr.  Jeames's  Sentiments  on  the  Cam- 
bridge Election,  xxi.  222. 

Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball 
given  to  the  Nepaulese  Ambassa- 
dor by  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental 
Company,  xx.  332. 

Mr.  Smith  and  Moses,  xxi.  451. 

Mr.  Snob's  Remonstrance  with  Mr. 
Smith,  xxi.  268. 

Mr.  Spec's  Remonstrance,  xxi.  195. 

Mr.  Thackeray  in  the  United  States, 
xxii.  426. 

Mr.  Yellowplush's  Ajew,  v.  117. 

Mrs.  Katherine's  Lantern,  xx.  285. 

Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball,  xx.  1. 

Mrs.  Ramsbottom  in  Cambridge, 
xxii.  2. 

Murder,  A  Statement  of  Fax  Rela- 
tive to  the  Late,  xxii.  4. 

My  Nora,  xx.  295. 

Napier,  Macvey,  Letters  +o,  xx.  474. 

Napoleon  at  St.  Helena,  On  the  Dis- 
interment of,  xix.  319. 

Napoleon,  The  Second  Funeral  of, 
xix.  319. 

New  Comedy,  Thoughts  on  a,  xxi. 
331. 

Newcomes,  The,  ix.  1 ;  x.  4. 

New  Forward  Movement,  On  the, 
xxi.  263. 

New  Spirit  of  the  Age,  A,  xix.  497. 

Nighfs  Pleasure,  A,  xiii.  480. 

Nil  Nisi  Bonum,  xix.  192. 

Nobleman  Visiting  Ireland,  Letters 
to  a,  xxi.  276. 

Nora,  My,  xx.  295. 


498 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Notch   on  the   Axe,  The,  xix.  210, 

217,  226. 
Notes  of  a  Week's  Holiday,  xix.  170. 
Novel,  A  Plan  for  a  Prize,  vi.  88. 
Novelist's  Future  Labors,  The,  xxii. 

467. 
Novels,  A  Box  of,  xix.  475. 
Novels  by  Eminent  Hands,  vi.  1. 

Objections  against  Art  Unions,  The, 

xxii.  225. 
Odds  and  Ends,  xxii.  120. 
Ogres,  xix.  185. 
Old  Friends   with  New   Faces,  xx. 

806. 
On  a  Lazy  Idle  Boy,  xix.  1. 
On  Alexandrines,  xix.  290. 
On  a  Medal  of  George  the  Fourth, 

xix.  298. 
On  a  Pear-tree,  xix.  254. 
On  a  Very  Old  Woman,  xx.  298. 
On  Being  Found  Out,  xix.  109. 
On  Men  and  Pictures,  xxii.  185. 
On  Ribbons,  xix.  16. 
On   Screens  in  Dining-Rooms,  xix. 

47. 
On  Some  Dinners  at  Paris,  xxi.  309. 
On   the   New   Forward    Movement, 

xxi.  263. 
One  "Who  can  Minister  to  a  Mind 

Diseased,"  xxi.  440. 
Opinion   of   the  Westminister   Hall 

Exhibition,  Professor  Byles's,  xxi. 

225. 
Organ  Boy's  Appeal,  The,  xx.  352. 
Ottillia,  V.  198. 
Our  Street,  xx.  31. 

Panorama  of  the  Ingleez,  xxi.  374. 

Papers  by  Punch's  Commissioner, 
xxi.  127. 

Papers  by  the  Fat  Contributor,  xxi. 
68. 

Papers,  Proser,  xxi.  174. 

Papers,  Snob,  xxi.  146. 

Papers  which  I  intended  to  write, 
On  two  Roundabout,  xix.  141. 

Paris,  Grant  in,  xix.  459. 

Paris,  On  some  Dinners  at,  xxi.  309. 

Paris,  On  the  Voyage  from  St.  He- 
lena to,  xix.  332. 

Paris  Revisited,  xxi.  298. 

Paris  Sketch  Book,  The,  xi.  1. 

Paris,  Two  or  Three  Theatres  at, 
xxi.  304. 


Partie  Fine,  The,  xxii.  385. 

Paturot,  Jerome,  xix.  444. 

Peal  of  Bells,  On  a,  xix.  344. 

Pear-Tree,  On  a,  xix.  254. 

Peg  of  Limavaddy,  xx.  278. 

Pen  and  the  Album,  The,  xx.  284. 

Pencil,  Dashes  at  Life  with  a  Free, 

xxii.  20. 
Pendennis,  iii.  1,  and  iv.  1. 
Persecution  of  British  Footmen,  The, 

xxi.  247. 
Petrus  Laureus,  xx.  359. 
Phil  Fogarty,  vi.  29. 
Philip,    The    Adventures    of,    xvii. 

and  xviii.  1. 
Pictorial  Rhapsody,  A,  xxii.  138, 162. 
Picture    Gossip :    in  a  Letter  from 

Michael  Angelo   Titmarsh,    xxii. 

271. 
Pictures  of  Life  and  Character,  John 

Leech's,  xix.  412. 
Pictures,  Strictures  on,  xxii.  112. 
Pimlico  Pavilion,  The,  xx.  328. 
Piscator  and  Piscatrix,  xx.  287. 
Plan  for  a  Prize  Novel,  A,  vi.  88. 
Plea  for  Plush,  A,  xxi.  220. 
Pleasures  of  Being  a  Fogy,  On  the, 

xiii.  430. 
Plush,  A  Plea  for,  xxi.  220. 
Pocahontas,  From,  xx.  292. 
Policeman  X.,  The  BaUads  of,  xx. 

337. 
Political  Snobs,  On  some,  xxi.  151. 
Poor  Puggy,  xxi.  385. 
Portraits  from  the  Late  Exhibition, 

xxi.  388. 
Powder,  The  Magic,  xx.  438. 
Press  and  the  Public,  On  the,  xxi. 

190. 
Princess,  The  Enchanted,  xx.  446. 
Prize  Novel,  A  Plan  for  a,  vi.  88. 
Professor    Byles's   Opinion   of    the 

Westminster  Hall  Exhibition,  xxi. 

225. 
Professor,  The,  xx.  462. 
Proser  Papers,  xxi.  174. 
Protestant  Conspiracy  to  Take  the 

Pope's  Life,  The  Woeful  BaUad 

of  the,  XX.  348. 
Public,  On  the  Press  and  the,  xxi. 

190. 
Public  Speeches,  xxii.  462. 
"Punch"   and   the   Influenza,  xxi. 

243. 
Punch  in  the  East,  xxi.  96. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


499 


Punch's   Commissioner,  Papei-s  by, 
xxi.  127. 

Radical  Snobs,  On,  xxi.  170. 
Ravenswing,  The,  vii.  1-3.5. 
Reality  of  the  Novelist's  Creation, 

The,  xxii.  463. 
Rebecca  and  Rowena  :  A  Romance 

upon  Romance,  vi.  30.5. 
Red  Flag-,  The,  xx.  307. 
Regent   of   Spain,    Singnlar   Letter 

from  the,  xxi.  205. 
Remonstrance,  Mr.  Spec's,  xxi.  195. 
Remonstrance  with  Mr.  Smith,  Mr. 

Snob's,  xxi.  268. 
Requiescat,  xx.  311. 
Reviews,  Critical,  xix.  369. 
Revolution,  Carlyle's   French,   xix. 

412. 
Revohition,  the  History  of  the  Next 

French,  vi.  369. 
Rhapsody,  A   Pictorial,    xxii.    138, 

162. 
Rhine,  A  Legend  of  the,  vi.  239. 
Rliine,  The  Kickleburys  on  the,  xx. 

105. 
Ribbons,  On,  xix.  16. 
Ride,  A  Roundabout,  xxi.  239. 
Robinson,  Death  of  the  Earl  of,  xxi. 

289. 
Rocks,  Tlie,  xx.  294. 
Roger-Bontemps,  xx.  303. 
Roi  d'Yvetot,  Le,  xx.  300. 
Ronsard  to  his  Mistress,  xx.  288. 
Rose  and  the  Ring,  The,  xx.  161. 
Rose  of  Flora,  The,  xx.  335. 
Rose   upon   my  Balcony,  The,  xx. 

228. 
Rothschild,  Esq.,  N.  M.,  xx.  358. 
Roundabout  Papers,  xix.  1. 
Roundabout     Papers   which    I    in- 
tended  to  Write,   On   Two,  xix. 

141. 
Roundabout  Ride,  A,  xxi.  539. 
Round  About   the  Christmas-Tree, 

xix.  88. 
Royal  Academy,  xxi.  216. 
Royal    Academy,    The,   xxii.   233, 

237. 

Sans  Souci,  On  some  Carp  at,  xix. 

273. 
Scene  in  St.  James's  Park,  A,  xxi. 

443. 
Science  at  Cambridge,  xxi.  285. 


Screens  in  Dining-Rooms,  On,  xix. 
47. 

Seat  of  War,  Important  from  the, 
xxi.  394. 

Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon,  The, 
xix.  319. 

Second  Lecture  on  the  Fine  Arts,  A, 
xxii.  124. 

Sentiments  on  the  Cambridge  Elec- 
tion, Mr.  Jeames's,  xxi.  222. 

Serenade,  xx.  296. 

Serving  Boy,  To  his,  xx.  305. 

Shabby  Genteel  Story,  A,  xvii.  1. 

Sights  of  London,  The,  xxi.  336. 

Singular  Letter  from  the  Regent  of 
Spain,  xxi.  205. 

Sister's  Portrait,  Lines  on  my,  xx. 
311. 

Sketch  Book,  A  Leaf  out  of  a,  xxii. 
441. 

Sketch  Book  of  1842,  The  Irish,  xii. 
1. 

Sketch  Book,  The  Paris,  xi.  1. 

Sketches  and  Travels  in  London, 
xiii.  333. 

Sketches,  Character,  xii.  367. 

Sketches,  Eastern,  xi.  325. 

Sketches,  Little  Travels  and  Road- 
side, V.  439. 

Sketch,  The  Last,  xix.  313. 

Skimmings  from  "The  Diary  of 
George  IV.,"  v.  128. 

Small-Beer  Chronicle,  xix.  124. 

Smith,  Mr.,  Mr.  Snob's  Remon- 
strance with,  xxi.  268. 

Snob  Civilian,  On  the.  xxi.  165. 

Snob  Papers,  xxi.  146. 

' '  Snob,  The,"  Contributions  to,  xxii. 
1. 

"Snob's,"  Birth,  Parentage,  and 
Education,  Our,  xxii.  1. 

Snob's,  Mr.,  Remonstrance  with  Mr. 
Smith,  xxi.  268. 

Snobs,  Are  there  any  Whig,  xxi. 
162. 

Snobs,  On  Conservative  or  Country- 
Party,  xxi.  1.58. 

Snobs,  On  Literary,  xxi.  146. 

Snobs,  On  Radical,  xxi.  170. 

Snobs,  On  some  Political,  xxi.  151. 

Snobs,  On  Whig,  xxi.  164. 

Snobs,  The  Book  of,  vii.  313. 

Soiree,  The  Great  Squattleborougb, 
xxi.  293. 

Solitude,  Meditations  on,  xxi.  127. 


500 


GENERAL   INDEX. 


Some  Carp  at  Sans  Souci,  On,  xix. 

273. 
Song-  of  the  Violet,  xx.  291. 
Sorrows  of  Werther,  xx.  290. 
Spa,  Beulali,  xxi.  131. 
Spain,  Singular  Letter  from  the  Re- 
gent of,  xxi.  205. 
Speculators,  The,  xx.  347. 
Spirit  of  the  Age,  A  new,  xix.  497. 
Squall,  The  White,  xx.  276. 
Stars  and  Stripes,  The,  vi.  79. 
Statement  of   Fax   Relative  to   the 

Late  Murder,  A,  xxii.  3. 
St.  Helena  to  Paris,  On  the  Voyage 

from,  xix.  332. 
St.  James's  Park,  A  Scene  in,  xxi. 

443. 
Strange    Man    Just    Discovered   in 

Germany,  A,  xxi.  359. 
"  Strange  to  Say,  on  Club  Paper," 

xix.  307. 
Strictures  on  Pictures,  xxii.  112. 
Sultan  Stork,  xx.  438. 

Tales,  xx.  366. 

Tea-Table  Tragedy,  A,  xxi.  441. 

Theatres  at  Paris,  Two  or  Three, 
xxi.  304. 

"The  National  Standard,"  Contri- 
butions to,  xxii.  7- 

"  The  Snob,"  Contributions  to,  xxii. 
1. 

Thorns  in  the  Cushion,  xix.  37. 

Thoughts  on  a  New  Comedy,  xxi. 
331. 

Three  Christmas  Waits,  The,  xx. 
338. 

Tickletoby's,  Miss,  Lectures  on  Eng- 
lish History,  xxi.  1. 

Timmin's,  A  Little  Dinner  at,  v. 
349. 

Titmarsh,  The  History  of  Samuel, 
and  the  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond, 
vii.  1. 

Titmarsh' s  Carmen  Lilliense,  xx. 
324. 

Titmarsh  versus  Tait,  xxi.  214. 

Toys,  Tunb ridge,  xix.  54. 

Tragedy,  A  Tea-Table,  xxi.  441. 

Tragic  "Story,  A,  xx.  297. 

Traveler,  An  American,  xxi.  185. 

Travels  in  London,  xxi.  230. 

Tremendous  Adventures  of  Major 
Gahagan,  The,  vi.  159. 

Trollope,  To  Anthony,  xxii.  381. 


Tunbridge  Toys,  xix.  54. 

Turkish  Letter  concerning  the  Di- 
vertissement "  Les  Houris,"  A, 
xxi.  199. 

Two  Children  in  Black,  On,  xix.  8. 

Two  or  Three  Theatres  at  Paris, 
xxi.  304. 

Two  Roundabout  Papers  which  I  in- 
tended to  Write,  On,  xix.  141. 

Uproar,  A  Club  in  an,  xxi.  234. 
Unions,  The  Art,  xxii.  220. 
Unions,  The  Objections  against  Art, 

xxii.  225. 
United  States,  Mr.  Thackeray  in  the, 

xxii.  436. 

Vanitas  Vanitatum,  xx.  355. 

Vanity  Fair,  i.  1 ;  ii.  1. 

Victories,  On  some  Late  Great,  xix. 

29. 
Violet,  Song  of  the,  xx.  291. 
Virginians,  The,  xv.  1 ;  xvi.  1. 
Voyage  from  St.  Helena  to  Paris, 

On  the,  xix.  332. 

Waiting  at  the  Station,  viii.  474. 

Wanderings  of  our  Fat  Contributor, 
xxi.  68. 

War,  Important  from  the  Seat  of, 
xxi.  394. 

Week's  Holiday,  Notes  of  a,  xix. 
170. 

Werther,  Sorrows  of,  xx.  290. 

Westminster  Hall  Exhibition,  Pro- 
fessor Byles's  Opinion  of  the,  xxi. 
225. 

What  I  remarked  at  the  Exhibition, 
xxi.  363. 

What  Makes  my  Heart  to  Thrill  and 
Glow,  XX.  293. 

When  Moonlike  ore  the  Hazure 
Seas,  XX.  308. 

When  the  Gloom  is  on  the  Glen,  xx. 
307. 

Whig  Snobs,  Are  there  any,  xxi. 
162. 

Whig  Snobs,  On,  xxi.  154. 

White  Squall,  The,  xx.  276. 

"  Who  can  Minister  to  a  Mind  Dis- 
eased," xxi.  440. 

Why  can't  they  leave  us  alone  in  the 
Holidays,  xxi.  356. 

Wife,  Dennis  Hoggerty's,  vii.  287. 

Wife,  The 's,  xxii.  299. 


GENERAL   INDEX. 


501 


WUlow-Tiee,  The,  xx.  325. 

Willow-Tree,  The  (another  version), 
XX.  826. 

Wisdom,  The  Age  of,  xx.  289. 

Wives,  Men's,  vii.  135,  261,  287; 
xxii.  209. 

Woeful  New  Ballad  of  the  Protes- 
tant Conspiracv  to  take  the 
Pope's  Life.  The,  xx.  348. 

Wolfe,  New  Ballad  of  Jane  Roney 
and  Mary  Brown,  The,  xx.  337. 


Wolves  and  the  Lamb,  The,  v.  245. 

Yankee  Volunteers,  The,  xx.  283. 
Years  Hence,  On  a  Hundred,  xix. 

116. 
Yellowplush.  The   Memoirs  of   Mr. 

C.  J.,  V.  1. 
Yesterday:    A  tale   of    the   Polish 

Ball,  xxi.  272. 
Yvetot,  The  King  of,  xx.  300. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN  THE    STANDAKD  LIBKAEY  EDITION    OF   THE 
WORKS   OF   W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


[The  22  volumes  of  this  edition  contain  about  1750  illustrations.  Many  of 
them  were  made  by  the  author  himself,  but  several  well-known  artists  are 
represented,  and  in  the  following  list  the  work  of  each  is  designated.] 


Volume  I.,  VANITY  FAIR,  I. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  of  W.  M.  Thackeray  is  after  a  draw- 
ing in  1854,  by  Samuel  Laurence. 
All  the  other  illustrations  are  by  W,  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  II.,  VANITY  FAIR,  II. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Vanity  Fair. 

All  the  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
LovEL  THE  Widower. 

All  the  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray,  except  the  initial  on 
page  397,  which  is  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer. 
Volume  III.,  THE  HISTORY   OF  PENDENNIS,  I. 

The   frontispiece   photogravure   and  all   other  illustrations  are   by 
W.  :M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  IV.,  THE  HISTORY   OF   PENDENNIS,  II. 

The   frontispiece   photogravure   and  all  other  illustrations   are  by 
W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  V.,  THE  MEMOIRS   OF  MR.   C.  J.   YELLOWPLUSH,  Etc. 
The  frontispiece  photogravure  is  by  George  Cruikshank. 
The  Memoirs  of  Mr.  C.  J.  Yellowplush. 
The  initials  are  by  E.  J.  Wheeler. 
The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  Fitz-Boodle  Papers. 

The  initials  and  text  illustrations  are  by  F.  Barnard. 
The  Bedford-Row-  Coxspiracy. 

The  initials  and  text  illustrations  are  by  R.  B.  Wallace. 


504  ILL  US  TRA  TIONS 

A  Little  Dinis'er  at  Timmins's. 

The  initials  on  pages  364,  374,  and  380  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

The  Initials  on  pages  349,  355,  359,  and  3()9  are  ])y  J.  P.  Atkinson. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray.  . 
The  Fatal  Boots. 

The  initials  are  by  J.  P.  Atkiu!>()ii. 

The  full-page  illustrations  are  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Little  Travels  and  Roadside  Sketches. 

The  initials  and  text  illustrations  are  by  Thomas  K.  Mac(|U()id. 
Volume  VI.,  BURLESQUES. 

The  frontispiece  plKjtogravure  of  W.  M.  Thackeray  is  from  a  bust  in 
1822  by  J.  Devile. 
Novels  by  Eminent  Hands. 

The  initials  on  pages  1,  15,  29,  44,  79,  and  88  are  by  E.  J.  Wheeler. 

The  initial  on  page  67  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  Diary  of  C.  Jeames  de  la  Pluche,  Esq.,  with  His  Letters. 

The  initials  on  pages  95  and  101  are  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 

The  initial  on  page  146  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  Tremendous  Adventures  of  Major  Gahagan. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  H.  Furniss. 
A  Legend  of  the  Rhine. 

The  initial  and  the  text  illustrations  are  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Rebecca  and  Rowena. 

All  the  illustrations  are  by  Richard  Doyle. 
The  History  of  the  next  French  Revolution. 

The  initial  on  page  369  is  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Cox's  Diary. 

The  initials  are  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 
Volume  VH.,  THE  HISTORY   OF   SAMUEL  TITMARSH,  Etc. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  History  of  Samuel  Titmarsh. 

The  initials  are  by  J.  P-  Atkinson. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Men's  Wives. 

The  initials  are  by  E.  J.  Wheeler. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  Luke  Fildes,  A.  R.  A. 
The  Book  of  Snobs. 

The  initials  on  pages  361,  378,  430,  461,  466,  486,  504,  and  508  are  by 
J.  P.  Atkinson. 

All  other  initials  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 


ILL  US  TRA  Tl  ONS.  605 

Volume  VIII.,  THE   MEMOIRS   OF  BARRY  LYNDON,    Esg. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  of  W.  M.  Thackeray  is  from  a  draAV- 
ing  in  1833  by  D.  Maclise. 
Barry  Lyndon. 

The  initials  are  by  ^V.  Ralston. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  7,  35,  46,  75,  99,  123,  186,  239,  and  303 

are  by  W.  Ralston. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  13,  18,  222,  and  305  are  by  J.  E.  Mil- 
lais,  R.  A. 
Denis  Duval. 

The  initials  on  pages  313  and  360  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  initials  on  pages  393  and  424  are  by  Frederick  "Walker. 
The  initials  on  pages  320,  343,  376,  and  409  are  by  AY.  Ralston. 
The  text  illustrations  are  by  Frederick  "Walker. 
Volume  IX.,  THE  NEWCOMES,  I. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  and  all  other  illustrations  are  by  Rich- 
ard Doyle. 
Volume  X.,  THE  NEWCOMES,  II. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  and  all  other  illustrations  are  by  Rich- 
ard Doyle. 
Volume  XL,  THE   PARIS   SKETCH  BOOK,  Etc. 

The  frontispiece  photogravui'e  is  by  "W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  Paris  Sketch  Book. 

The  initials  on  pages  157  and  208  are  by  AY.  INI.  Thackeray. 

All  the  other  initials  are  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  12, 18,  43,  63,  74,  87,  92,  113,  119,  121, 

139,  290,  and  303  are  by  AY.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  3,  28,  66,  102,  153,  161,  178,  211,  228. 

294,  and  315  are  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 
The  full-page  illustrations  are  by  AY.  M.  Thackeray. 
Eastern  Sketches. 

The  initials  are  by  AY.  J.  AA^ebb. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  344,  394,  428,  and  442  are  by  AY.  J. 

AYebb. 
The   other  text  illustrations  and  the  full   page  illustrations   are  by 
AY.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XII.,  THE  IRISH  SKETCH  BOOK,  Etc. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  of  AY.  M.  Thackeray  is  from  his  last 
pliotogi-aph  taken  in  1863. 
The  Irish  Sketch  Book. 

The  initials  are  bv  M.  Fitzgerald. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  3,   57,  73,  129,  161,  216,  246,  269,  and 

355  are  by  M.  Fitzgerald. 
The  text  illus^tration  on  page  337  is  by  John  Collier. 
The  other  text  illustrations  are  by  AA^.  M.  Thackeray. 


506  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Chakactek  Sketches. 

The  illustrations  are  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 
A'OLUME  XIII.,  THE  FOUR  GEORGES,  Etc. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  Four  Georges. 

The  initials  are  by  W.  M.  Thackera}-. 

The  text  illustration  on  page  28  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  17,  30,  41,  63,  78,  and  96  are  by  Frank 

Dicksie. 
The  text  illustration  on  page  34  is  copied  by  Thackeray  from  a  con- 
temporary caricature. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  70  and  71  are  copied  by  Thackeray 

from  drawings  by  Gilray. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  82,  83,  and  102  are  copied  by  Thackeray 
from  contemporary  prints. 
The  English  Humorists. 

The  initials  on  pages  113,  150,  186,  and  296  are  by  F.  Barnard. 

The  initial  on  page  222  is  by  Linley  Sambourne. 

The  initial  on  page  263  is  by  E.  J.  Wheeler. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  119,  155,  181,  198,  303,  and  327  are  by 

F.  Barnard. 
The  text  illustration  on  page  218  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  233  and  253  are  by  Linley  Sambourne. 
Sketches  and  Travels  in  London. 

The  initial  on  page  343  is  by  Richard  Doyle. 

The  initials  on  pages  367,  434,  474,  489,  501,  and  506  are  by  J.  P. 

Atkinson. 
The  other  initials  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XIV.,  THE  HISTORY   OF  HENRY   ESMOND,    ESQ. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure,  Thackeray  in  his  Study,  is  from  a 

painting  in  1854  by  E.  M.  Ward. 
The  initials  are  by  J.  P.  Atkinson. 
The  text  illustrations  are  by  George  du  Maurier. 
Volume  XV.,  THE  VIRGINIANS,  I. 

The   frontispiece   photogravure  and  all   other   illustrations   are   by 
W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XVI.,  THE  VIRGINIANS,  II. 

The  frontispiece   photogravure   and   all   other  illustrations  are   by 
W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XVII.,  THE  ADVENTURES   OF  PHILIP,  I. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  of  W.  M.  Thackeray  is  from  a  photo- 
graph in  1852. 
A  Shabby  Genteel  Story. 

The  illustrations  are  by  R.  B.  Wallace. 


ILLUSTRATIONS.  507 

The  Adventures  of  Philip. 

The  initials  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

The  text  illustrations  on  pages  140,  145,  179,  and  211  are  by  W.  M. 

Thackeray. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  244,  286,  314,  357,  377,  and  412  are 
by  Frederick  Walker. 
Volume  XVIIL,  THE  ADVEXTURES  OF  PHILIP,  II. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  is  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  Auvextures  of  Philip,  II. 
The  initials  are  by  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustrations  are  by  Frederick  Walker. 
Catherine:  A  Story. 

The  initials  are  by  F.  A.  Eraser. 
The  text  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XIX.,  ROUXDABOUT  PAPERS,  Etc. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  is  b}^  George  Cruikshank. 
Roundabout  Papers. 

The  initials  on  pages  1,  8,  29,  37,  47,  54,  88,  152,  192,  and  201  are  by 

Charles  Keene. 
The  other  initials  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  13,  31,  43,  58,  99,  131,  and  194  are  by 

Charles  Keene. 
The  text  illustrations  on  pages  4,  30,  38,  60,  71,  79,  93,  130,  153,  184, 

and  203  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustration  on  page  24  is  from  a  photograph. 
The  text  illustration  on  page  52  is  from  a  water-color  drawing  by 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 
The  text  illustration  on  page  71  is  copied  by  W.  M.  Thackeray  from 
a  drawing  by  George  Cruikshank. 
The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon. 

The  illustrations  are  by  M.  Fitzgerald. 
Critical  Reviews. 

The  illustrations  in    "George  Cruikshank"   are   by  George    Cruik- 
shank. 
The  illustrations  in    ''John  Leech's  Pictures"  are  by  John  Leech, 
except  the  one  on  page  421,  which  is  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Volume  XX.,  CHRISTMAS   STORIES,  BALLADS,  POEMS,   Etc. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  and  all  the  other  illustrations  are  by 
W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XXL,  CONTRIBUTIOXS   TO  PUNCH. 

The  frontispiece  photogravure  of  W.  M.  Thackeray  is  after  a  draw- 
ing in  1854  by  Samuel  Laurence. 
The  other  illustrations  are  by  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
Volume  XXIL,  MISCELLANEOUS  PAPERS   AND   SKETCHES. 

The  frontispiece  steel  engraving  of  W.  ]\L  Thackeray  is  from  a  photo- 
graph about  1851. 
The  other  illustrations  are  bv  W.  M,  Thackerav. 


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